The End's Beginning
by Jimi Keys
Summary: Serena just wanted to be normal. And now her parents are dead, she might be crazy, and the only other family she knows is her paranoid uncle, Bobby Singer. But what happens when her fate crosses the paths of the Winchester brothers?
1. Gimme Shelter

**The End's Beginning**

* * *

Someone was watching her. She could feel it, that familiar tingling sensation at the back of her neck which made the tiny hairs there stand to attention.

The seat in front of her was empty, and the bus driver was humming the tune to a song Serena didn't bother to recognize. She adjusted the reflective aviator shades over her eyes, pressing it hard against the bridge of her nose and ducking her head between her shoulders. She dug through one of the front pockets of her jacket, her fingers closing around the powder compact she kept there.

She pulled it out and flipped it open, dusting an extra layer of powdery foundation over her cheeks, trying hard not to let the apprehension twisting inside her chest show in her expression. Discreetly, she angled the mirror away from her and towards the back of the bus, trying to get a good look at everyone behind her.

There was a young couple leaning against each other at the back of the bus, asleep, and a woman was reading a Catherine Coulter novel in the seat a little further up from them. Her heart almost leaped out of her throat when she caught sight of the young man grinning at her reflection in the mirror, but she forced herself to relax. _Stop it_, she told herself, _He's harmless..._

The young man was sitting two seats behind her on the other side of the large Greyhound bus, probably just trying to flirt with her. He was even handsome.

Serena flushed, putting away her powder compact and sinking deeper into the corner of her seat in a halfhearted attempt to disappear. She pulled the hood of her slimming blue pullover over her head, worn underneath her jacket.

She was anxious, but she told herself it was over nothing. No one noticed her except the young man two seats behind her, who had gotten on the bus at their last stop at Sioux City, Iowa. His hair was close-cropped and his cheeks were as smooth as hers, he couldn't have been more than a couple of years older than her. He wore a standard issue USMC Army Combat Uniform, and Serena guessed he might've been a Marine who was heading home from Iraq to spend some quality time with his family, and maybe a girlfriend. He wasn't after her, surely.

But someone was.

She wasn't naïve, not anymore. She'd been through too much to let her guard down now, or ever again.

With her fingers, Serena traced the flimsy white gauze wrapped around her forearm, hidden underneath her sleeve. The memories were still fresh in her head, but she'd long since developed a numbness which left her unfeeling every time she'd remember the whole ordeal, as if it had happened to someone else. It was her mind's way of coping. She could barely make out the images anymore, like looking through the unfocused lens of a bad camera, but perhaps it was better that way.

She pressed her forehead to the window beside her seat and stared at the looming sign coming up alongside the highway. It read _Sioux Falls – 15 miles_ in bold white letters against a green backdrop.

_Just one more hour_, she thought desperately, _just sixty more minutes, and I won't have to worry about any of that. _No one knew about her Uncle Bobby, no one. At least for awhile, she'd be safe, and Serena was willing to take what little ephemeral sense of security she could get.

An hour later, the bus slowed to a stop, and when Serena carefully stepped out of it she was afraid for an instant that the young Marine would try to follow her. But he didn't, no one did.

As the bus ambled onward and blew ugly black smoke out of its exhaust pipes, Serena stood there, alone, shouldering a duffel bag full of eight sets of clothing she'd hurriedly grabbed from her closet. She stared at the young Marine one last time as the bus lazily drove off into the distance, and saw him turn around in his seat to watch her.

Serena tamped down on her nerves. She was glad for her shades, because then the Marine couldn't be sure if she was staring right back at him, and she was. But Serena was certain now, he had just wanted to flirt with her on the bus, not hurt her.

It was late into the month of April, and the climate was crisp but cold in Sioux Falls this time of year, the stinging chill nipping at her skin and flushing her pale cheeks and sensitive lips. It was a miserable weather for most people, but Serena didn't mind it too much. She had learned to survive on less, and was relatively comfortable in her leather suede boots and snug woolen gloves.

As she walked alongside the deserted rural highway, she thought absently that the Marine had lousy taste in women.

…

The house looked like a large, withered old shack amidst the salvage yard. It had two stories and many windows, most of which revealed very little besides dark foreboding shadow. There was a collection of rusty hubcaps pinned to the exterior of the house, which had once been painted a bright navy blue, but over the years the color had faded and was layered with a thin film of grime. Various other piles of car parts were scattered around the vicinity, but despite its old age and the organized chaos surrounding it, Serena imagined it might have once been a hospitable, typically All-American home.

But that had obviously been a long time ago, and now the house appeared far from welcoming. If anything, the place gave the impression that no one was welcome here at all.

There was an outdated, pale blue Ford tow-truck parked by the house which was, unsurprisingly, dilapidated and rusty. The paintjob was faded and chipped in some areas, revealing an undercoating of white underneath, but otherwise it appeared to be in a good enough condition to drive.

What _did_ surprise her, however, was the enormous black Rottweiler lying idly upon the hood of the truck, one end of a long, thin chain attached to its collar and the other end tied loosely around the bough of a nearby tree growing alongside the house.

The Rottweiler growled, as if it could sense her presence even in its sleep. It blinked, fluttering its eyes open and regarding her with guarded disinterest.

Serena stood very still a few yards across from it, trying to appear as harmless as possible. She was careful not to let her own fear show on her face, or else the huge dog would mistake it for hostility and surely swallow her whole.

Taking care as to make no sudden movements, she slowly placed her duffle bag on the dirt floor, plucking her aviator shades off of her nose and tucking it into the collar of her pullover so that she was looking directly into its big brown eyes now, a wary smile stretched thin across her face. Her hands were trembling, but she tried to ignore it.

The Rottweiler raised its big wet nose and sniffed at the air, as if it could determine whether or not she was a threat just by her scent alone. Its nostrils flared, its breath coming out in thick white vapors.

And then it plopped its massive head back onto its forepaws with a grunt, disregarding her altogether. It was uncertain whether the huge dog had decided she was harmless, or it was just too lazy to bother with her.

Serena let out the breath that she'd been holding, exuding relief. Wispy white steam rolled off her parted lips, disappearing into the bracing April air as quickly as it manifested.

She tucked her shades over her eyes again and tugged at the hood around her head, as if to make sure it was still there. She'd hid her face behind them for so long that it felt odd without them on.

Shrugging her duffel bag over her shoulder once more, she walked across the short distance between her and the huge dog, and gratefully scratched behind one of its big floppy ears. The Rottweiler mewled appreciatively, licking her fingers with its enormous tongue when she'd pulled away to touch the thin metal tag fastened to its studded leather collar. The tag read: _Rumsfeld_.

Serena smiled a little. "Thanks for not eating me, Rumsfeld," she quipped. She'd always had a soft spot for pets, and they always seemed to warm up to her in return. It was no different with Rumsfeld.

"Good for nothing mutt never did make a decent watchdog…" A guttural, southern drawl grumbled from somewhere nearby.

With a start, Serena looked up, resisting the instinctive urge to turn around and run, her hands quickly falling to her sides as she twisted to face the general direction of the voice.

A bearded, relatively old man stood at the edge of the porch to the house. He was dressed in working boots, faded jeans and a flak vest over a flannel lumberjack shirt. His clothes gave her the impression of a burly trucker; he even had a trucker's hat over his thinning, grayish-brown hair to top it off.

Serena's gaze fell on the sawed-off shotgun dangling from his right hand. He wasn't aiming it at her, but that didn't make the firearm any less dangerous.

Serena ignored it. She might have been afraid, had she honestly believed he would hurt her. She couldn't bring herself to fear this man, not really. But she still had the sense to be careful, guarded. She was always guarded these days.

"Hi," She managed to say, her voice unusually flat. Her hand gingerly rose to touch Rumsfeld's head, as if seeking protection or maybe comfort, but the huge dog was already asleep.

Bobby Singer's fingers tightened around his shotgun imperceptibly, but he did not raise it at her. He peered down at her, wary. "Who're you?"

He didn't recognize her, Serena realized, but that came as no surprise. She'd met him only once when she was seven, and couldn't quite remember much about him herself. All those years ago, her parents had been fighting, and her mother had taken Serena with her to stay at their estranged brother-in-law's for a few days. Serena didn't remember him owning a dog back then.

She took off her shades and pulled back the hood of her pullover so that it fell around her neck. She shook her head slightly and bright, wheat-gold hair tumbled past her shoulders in a current of soft curls.

Bobby's eyes widened faintly in recognition, but he was still uncertain. "Irene?"

Serena smiled wryly. "No, I'm her daughter. Serena, remember?"

Bobby stared, and an odd, incredulous look crinkled his forehead. "You got… _big_…" He managed to say, awkwardly trying in vain to hide the sawed-off shotgun behind him, as if he'd been caught with something unseemly. It was almost comical, seeing a grown man look like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Yeah, ten years will do that to a girl." Serena laughed gently, and then she gestured to the firearm behind him, "You don't have to hide that, by the way. Poppa had one just like it; he liked to flash it around, too. You know, men and their toys."

Bobby's brows rose, not expecting her clever remark. And then he sighed, almost ruefully, "You're definitely Irene's girl." He gave her a measured look, a single brow raised, until he finally asked, "What're you doin' in Sioux Falls?"

Serena shrugged. "I needed a place to stay for awhile, and I remembered my Uncle Bobby in Sioux Falls."

"Where are your parents, Serena?"

"They… they're gone."

Bobby's brows furled. "What do you mean _gone_?"

"Gone," Serena repeated, suddenly withdrawn. She was staring at the empty space over Bobby's shoulder, unable to look him directly in the eyes as she spoke to him. "I was hoping that I could stay here for awhile. I won't bother you, I promise. It's just until I'm eighteen. I'm still considered a minor, so I can't live alone right now. It was either this, or foster care."

Bobby's head was bowed, his thumb and index finger pinching the space between his furrowed brows as a grim look fell over his face. "How?"

Serena blinked. "How what?"

He looked up at her then, abruptly. His gaze was fierce. "How did they _die_?"

The question struck her like a physical blow. She heard the righteous fury in his voice, and even the grief carefully hidden underneath. It reminded her of her own despair, the initial feelings of anger and anguish upon realizing her parents were dead and they were never, ever coming back.

Serena's throat felt tight. She brought her hand up against the hood of the tow-truck, using it as a crutch, suddenly unable to hold herself up on her own.

"Serena, tell me!"

"I—I don't know!" Serena snapped, "I woke up, and it was dark. 3 AM, I think. I went upstairs to look for them, and their bedroom door was open. They looked like they were sleeping but… but there was so much _blood_." She didn't know why she was saying all of this now, dredging up that terrible memory she'd fought so hard to forget, to move on. She'd gone so long without even _thinking_ about it, and yet somehow the words seemed to burst out of her mouth unbidden, as if all of her pent-up anger and pain were finally spilling over and she had no control over it.

Serena shut her eyes tightly, struggling to suppress the image of red, red blood seeping through thin linen bed sheets and dripping onto the carpet, splattered on the _walls_.

She sucked in a deep breath and willed herself to calm down, working through the pain until she felt nothing for the memory, for the loss. It was the way she coped: putting up barriers around herself, hiding behind a pretense of optimism and naïveté, running away from the truth. The truth hurt, the truth terrified her, and so she buried it with the rest of her despair.

Bobby made a move to walk up to her, but Serena visibly balked at this, so he hesitated. He decided to keep his distance.

"Do you know what might have killed them, Serena?" He demanded, the urgency thick in his voice.

Serena looked at him as if he were a stranger, a madman. "What are you talking about? They were _men_. Two of them…I think." She blinked hard, brows furrowed; her head felt like it was spinning.

"Was there anything strange about them, anything at all?"

"Yeah," Serena spat, furious that he'd ask her these unusual questions without any consideration to her frail emotional state, "They were _dead_."

"_What_?"

"They were dead, and much worse off than my parents," She explained tightly, fighting to keep her breathing even. Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry in front of this man. She wasn't weak, not anymore. "It was like their entire bodies were burned, inside and out. It was horrible. Their faces were completely melted off, but I _know_ they were the murdering bastards that did it. The knives were still clenched in their hands…"

"Where were they?"

"I… I found them like that in my bedroom," She explained stiffly, staring at the dirt beneath her feet as if in confusion.

"Your _bedroom_?" Bobby spoke, alarmed, "Where were _you_?"

He was asking out of concern, that's all it was, but Serena mistook it for suspicion. Her mind was reeling.

She held her hand to her head, kneading the area around her temple which seemed to throb painfully. "I was downstairs. I—I think I fell asleep on the couch that night, but… I don't remember. I don't _want _to remember! I don't—!" She _couldn't_ remember. It hurt too much, her head was _pounding_, her eyes suddenly unfocused. She felt her knees buckle beneath her, the world was spinning and she was falling.

She would've hit the ground headfirst in a miserable heap were it not for Bobby's surprisingly quick reflexes. He was fast for an old man, she noticed absently. His burly arms caught her in time and held her upright, her head awkwardly lolling against his shoulder.

Bobby was calling out her name, urging her to stay awake, and she _tried_, but her eyelids weighed like lead and the darkness crept around the edges of her vision until it swallowed her whole. When she finally resigned herself to oblivion, her head no longer hurt, and the tragic memories of blood and death were gone at last. She welcomed it with a tiny smile.

...

He was calling out to her still when she woke up the next morning, stunned and vaguely disoriented.

Serena stiffly opened her eyes, wincing as the light stung her pupils and a dull pain blossomed inside her skull, starting at the space between her eyebrows and spreading all over her face. Even her teeth hurt.

Serena groaned. Bobby was shaking her lightly, his callused fingers firmly closed around her shoulders, holding her tight as if he were afraid she'd fall to pieces if he just loosened his grip. His grip on her shoulders was protective, powerful, almost comforting, but her senses were oversensitive and even the slightest movement seemed to add strength to her headache.

She tried to push him away, her movements sluggish, but he stopped shaking her once he'd realized she was awake. She blinked hard, refocusing her vision until Bobby's face was no longer just a blur of primary colors, and she saw the ragged look about him. He was sitting on a folding chair close beside her, and a low coffee table was behind him. His hat was gone, his hair was mussed as if he'd been running his hands through them for hours, and he didn't look like he'd slept for at least a day.

"Uncle… Bobby?" She mumbled, her brows furrowing. She stared at his hands gripping her shoulders, and then her gaze slowly met his, confused. "What happened?"

Bobby carefully let go of her, his hands falling to rest on his knees. "You passed out," He managed to say.

Tiredly, Serena rubbed her eyes with her hand. "Oh."

She wasn't outside in the yard anymore, but lying on worn, comfortable cushions—an old sofa, she realized, as she took in the new environment. She was in the living room of his home, if you could call it that. There was an old fireplace nearby, deep orange flames crackling gently within the hearth, and there were masses of books piled against the walls, and a small writing desk nearby. But there were no pictures on the walls, and somehow that saddened her more than it should have.

A woolen blanket surrounded her, bundled up around her waist as she sat upright. Her jacket and gloves were gone, as well as her boots. She was still in her blue pullover and skinny jeans, and a pair of socks that didn't quite match. Her clothes felt slightly damp, matted with sweat.

Serena tried to imagine a burly bear of a man like Bobby Singer carrying her tiny body into the ramshackle house, laying her over the sofa and pulling off her jacket and shoes before tucking a blanket over her sleeping form. She would have laughed if she had had the emotional stability to do so.

"Are you alright?" Bobby asked.

Serena didn't answer right away. She wasn't sure. She felt tired, and sad—just very sad. She didn't know why. "I think so," she said slowly. "How long have I been asleep?"

Bobby hesitated. "All day yesterday, and this morning," he admitted.

Serena's eyes widened slightly, her brows rising up over her forehead. "How come you only woke me up now?"

"You were screaming."

Serena blinked. "Oh," she mumbled, and then she eyed him, curious, "What about?"

Bobby brought his hand up to rub the back of his neck, uncomfortable. "Listen, Serena… I'm sorry I asked you all those questions the other day," he apologized, changing the subject, "I wasn't thinking about how it might've affected you. I was being insensitive to your situation by acting the way I did."

Serena remembered now. Her parents were dead. She'd come to Sioux Falls, to Bobby, unsure of what she should expect from her estranged uncle, but hoping it would be refuge. Instead he'd interrogated her, asking her questions the other day—strange, seemingly pointless questions which only seemed to cause her pain.

But he apologized, even though it was clear he had no experience in comforting others. He'd gone through the trouble of letting her sleep on his sofa, pulling off her sneakers and her jacket to make her comfortable, and covering her with a blanket to keep her warm. It was apparent that he'd stayed up all night watching over her, too. These were small gestures of kindness, but they were enough to make Serena forgive him. She could never stay truly mad at anyone for a long time, anyway. It just wasn't in her nature.

She leaned back against the sofa and pulled the blanket over her collarbone, trying to relax. "I should be the one apologizing, Uncle Bobby. I guess it's a little alarming, seeing your niece for the first time in ten years—only for me to tell you that my parents are gone and I need a place to stay. It's a lot to take in. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

"I understand why you did," Bobby reasoned, and then he shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry about your parents, Serena. I… I loved Irene as if she were my own blood."

Serena nodded, not trusting her own voice. She didn't want to talk about her parents anymore. She wanted to move on and never look back. She didn't want to be sad anymore, she was so _tired_ of feeling miserable.

"Here, drink this," Bobby ordered suddenly, pulling her out of her thoughts. He had a silver flask in his hand, and he was gesturing for her to take it.

Serena eyed the small silver flask in mild confusion. "What is it?" She asked, but took it anyway. It was cool in her hands, circular in shape, and she could feel pentacles softly engraved on each side as she ran her fingertips over it.

"Don't worry, it ain't whiskey," Bobby explained.

Serena sighed. "Too bad. I could use some right about now."

Bobby scowled, "Are you crazy? You ain't even of age!"

"I was just kidding." Serena bit her lip, suppressing a laugh, "So, what's really in it?"

Still slightly miffed at the joke, Bobby muttered, "Water."

"_Water_," Serena repeated, giving him a blank look.

"Just drink it," He ordered sulkily.

Slightly amused, Serena did as she was told. She undid the lid and took a swig of the flask. The water was lukewarm, but she made sure to drink every last drop, assuming Bobby would not be satisfied otherwise.

When she finished, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve and looked at him expectantly, "Well?"

Bobby gave her a grave, measured look. With a determined set of his jaw, he said, "_Christo_."

Serena blinked. She furrowed her brows, clearly perplexed. "What?"

Bobby let out a sigh that was not quite relief, but he didn't explain himself. "Nevermind."

Serena eyed him, brows knitted even closer as her confusion grew. "Were you always this weird?" She wondered out loud, "Actually, I don't remember you being around much the last time I was here…" She frowned, recalling the few days she'd spent here all those years ago as a child, when she was only seven.

"I was never good with kids," He admitted sheepishly.

Serena smiled sympathetically. "How good are you with young adults?"

"Probably not much better," He grumbled dryly, chuckling.

"It's only until I turn eighteen, and then I'll be out of your hair, I swear," Serena started, "I promise I won't get in your may. I'll clean up after myself, do the laundry, and I can cook, too. Well, I'm actually a terrible cook, but I can try." She was babbling and she knew it, but it was an old habit she tended to fall back to when she was nervous.

"Serena," Bobby cut in, sighing, "Of course you can stay—for as long as you like. I'd be a right bastard if I let you come all this way fer nothin'. Besides, ain't no way in hell I'd let a little thing like you be out there on your own." He smiled wryly at his small attempt at humor.

For the first time in what felt like too long, Serena grinned. It didn't quite reach her eyes, but it was genuine. She flung her arms around Bobby's neck in an unexpected hug and Bobby stiffened, clearly not accustomed to such open displays of affection.

"Thank you so much, Uncle Bobby," Serena gushed, sincerely grateful.

He barely knew her, and they weren't even related by blood. He had no obligation to her, and yet here he was, allowing her to stay with him and live in his home, helping her in her time of need. He could've easily turned her away, he had every right to. But he didn't. He was willing to let her stay, to protect her. He was practically her savior.

Knowing this, Serena didn't feel so hopelessly alone anymore.

Bobby patted her back awkwardly, not quite returning the hug, but not resisting it either.

Serena pulled away, realizing he was uncomfortable, but her smile never faltered.

Clearing his throat, Bobby said, "Listen, Serena, you don't need to call me uncle. I mean, I ain't related to you, not anymore. Not since… since your Aunt Karen passed away."

Serena's smile faded. She recognized the pain and loss in Bobby's eyes, the same pain and loss that would stare back at her whenever she looked into a mirror.

She didn't remember her mother's older sister, didn't even know how the woman had died. She had been only six months old when her Aunt Karen had passed away. Growing up, her parents had always seemed to tip-toe around the subject of her late aunt. The only thing she really knew for certain about Karen Singer was that she had had golden hair and blue eyes, genes which Serena had inherited.

But it was clear that Bobby had loved her dearly, Serena could tell just by the way he'd said her name. She must've been a wonderful woman. Serena wished her parents had told her more about her aunt, but with a heavy heart she realized it was too late now. She just had to look forward to getting to know her Uncle Bobby.

"I _want_ to call you uncle," Serena spoke, gently taking his large hand in her tinier ones, "I know we don't know each other very well, but you're the only family I have left. So if it's okay with you, I'd like to call you Uncle Bobby." She gave him a tentative smile.

Bobby said nothing, his ears flushed and his expression growing sheepish. He nodded noncommittally, clearing his throat as he stood, pulling his cap out of his jeans' back pocket and tucking it snugly over his head. He excused himself, muttering, "Uh. Well alright. Wait here, I'll prepare a guest room for ya."

Serena watched him hurry up the staircase, disappearing upstairs. She tore her gaze away from the flight of steps and sighed. Bobby apparently wasn't the sentimental type, and she was willing to bet he almost certainly had no idea how to raise a teenager. But that was okay. She didn't need a parent, just a place to stay.

He had already agreed to let her stay, but she was beginning to feel something like guilt twist in her chest. She felt like an intruder, butting into Bobby's life like this when he was clearly not prepared for it. But she had no other options, didn't know anyone else to turn to.

She shook her head, as if to shake loose her insecurity. Bringing her hands up to rub against her arms, she swung her legs over the edge of the sofa and sat upright, now free to properly observe her surroundings.

Bobby lived like a packrat. Serena didn't consider herself very organized, but even she found the clutter a little disconcerting. There were so many books, but not enough bookshelves. It was odd; she would've never pegged Bobby for a bookworm. She vaguely remembered how he'd owned an impressive collection of books even back then, though he seemed to have accumulated even more in the ten years since she'd last visited the salvage yard. She wondered if he had read them all, and what they could be about. She wondered if he'd let her read some of them.

Growing restless, she pushed the blanket off of her and slowly attempted to stand. Her legs felt numb from disuse, her muscles tingling in protest, but she worked through the dull pain and carefully stepped forward, toward the fireplace. There was an iron poker leaning beside the fireplace, and she grabbed it, prodding the poker into the smoldering ash and firewood, rifling through the flames and leaning into the comforting heat.

Out of the corners of her eyes she caught the light filtering through the shutters of another room. Her curiosity grew when she peered through the gaping doorway, revealing the contents inside: more books, but also pictures of symbols and newspaper clippings lining the walls, and a desk at the far corner with a typewriter sitting over it, among other things.

Drawn in a way she didn't quite understand, she stepped towards the room, dropping the poker without realizing it. It clattered heavily against the paneled flooring.

…

Bobby had pulled out his cell phone from the pocket of his flak vest, deftly punching in a sequence of numbers. Bobby didn't keep contacts in his cell, there was no need; he'd already committed every phone number to memory. He pressed the cell to his ear and waited, his anticipation growing with every second the receiver hummed, unanswered.

The phone rang once, twice, and then, "_Hello_?"

Bobby frowned, not recognizing the voice. "Dean?"

"_Um—no, I'm his brother. Who is this_?"

Bobby finally recognized the voice, but it was deeper since the last time he'd heard it. "Sam?" His brows rose, mildly surprised. "Well I'll be damned, it _is_ you."

"_Sorry, but who _is_ this_?" Sam repeated, wary.

Bobby rolled his eyes. He growled into the phone, "It's Bobby, ya idgit!"

"_Oh. Oh! Bobby! Wow. I mean, sorry. It's been…_awhile_._"

"You're tellin' me," Bobby agreed, scoffing, "Last time I heard, you went off to some fancy college. Good for you."

"_Yeah. Um. Thanks_."

Bobby did not miss the discomfort in Sam's voice. He was hiding something.

"What're you doin' with Dean's cell?"

There was a measured silence on the other line, and then, "_Dad's… missing. We're trying to find him_," Sam admitted, withdrawn. "_You don't by any chance happen to know where he is, do you_?"

"I haven't spoken to your father in years. He and I didn't exactly see eye to eye the last time I saw him," Bobby confessed, brows knitting even further together. He wasn't surprised that John had abandoned his boys, leaving them in the dark. It wouldn't be the first time. Bobby clenched his jaw and thought, _Obsessive bastard._

Sam replied dryly, "_That makes two of us_."

Bobby furrowed his brows. "You boys alright?"

There was another bout of silence. Bobby opened his mouth to speak, maybe change the subject and get to the matter at hand, but Sam beat him to it.

"_You wanted to speak to Dean? It's why you called, right_?"

"Yeah," Bobby confirmed, relieved. "He around?"

"_Hold on_."

There were sounds of shuffling and footsteps, and then he heard Dean's voice, a distant rumble mingling with the background noises. There was a short exchange of words between the two brothers, and then Dean's voice rang clearly through the receiver, deep and guttural and lively, as always, "_Good to hear from you, Bobby. You're on speaker. Go ahead_."

"I could say the same for you boys," Bobby said, and he meant it. Though he wished it had been under better circumstances, he was glad the Winchester brothers were reunited.

"_What can we do ya for_?" Dean quipped.

Bobby hesitated. "I need you to look into a double homicide for me," He relented.

"_You think it could be our kind of job_?" Dean said eagerly.

"I'm almost certain it is," Bobby answered, serious.

"_Lay it on us_."

"Their names were Irene and Kenneth Campbell," Bobby explained, his throat clenching a little. It was hard to say it out loud; it only made the tragedy of their deaths that much more personal. He stomped down on his anger. "They were murdered in their own home late at night by two men. Odd thing is the murder suspects were found dead at the scene, too, from what I heard."

Sam spoke, "_Sounds pretty unusual, but… Bobby, are you sure this is a hunt_?"

"The murder suspects were burned to a crisp, inside and out. Their faces were melted off. Apparently they were much worse off than their victims."

"_What about the victims_?" Sam asked grudgingly, curiosity getting the better of him. It was clear he didn't seem too thrilled about this hunt.

"They were… gutted. The knives were still clenched in the murder suspects' hands when they found the bodies."

Dean spoke, "_When did it happen and where_?" By the sound of his voice, he'd already made up his mind. He was going to take on this hunt.

"I'm not sure," Bobby admitted, somewhat sheepishly. He was frowning. "The Campbell's were like nomads, they didn't stay in one place for too long."

"_You don't know_?" Dean started, a hint of amusement and disbelief in his voice. _"Bobby Singer doesn't know every detail about a potential hunt_?"

It _was _odd, considering Bobby's borderline obsessive tendencies when it came to hunting. Bobby was usually methodical in his research, he was always prepared, but nothing had prepared him for Serena Campbell, Karen's beautiful, broken little niece. She had thrown him completely for a loop.

Bobby bristled. "Listen, I'd handle this myself if I wasn't already indisposed. You gonna take it or not?"

"_Relax Bobby. We'll check it out_," Dean relented, hoping to mollify the older man. Dean hadn't meant to anger him.

"Sam?" Bobby said, somewhat imploring. He had a feeling Sam wasn't as gung-ho about hunting as Dean was. "Are you in?"

"_Of course he is_," Dean insisted, and then, "_Ow! What the—bitch, what'd you hit me for_?"

"_I have my laptop with me_. _I'll see what I can find about the murder online_," Sam conceded stiffly.

"I owe you big time, boys," Bobby said, the relief and gratitude exuding from his voice. "Report to me with what you find, ya hear?"

"_Yes sir_," Dean complied.

"_Fine_," Sam grumbled.

They exchanged quick, impersonal goodbyes. Bobby was the first to hang up, switching off his phone. He snapped it shut and stared at the device, a concentrated frown pursing his mouth.

He wondered, not for the first time, if it was a good idea to let other hunters know of Irene and Kenneth's bizarre death. But he couldn't investigate their murders himself, no matter how much he wanted to. Serena was his first priority; he had to be there for her, to keep her safe.

Dean and Sam were _good_ hunters, weren't brash and unreasonable like the rest. What's more, they were practically family. He could trust them. He had to.

"Damn it," Bobby grumbled, regretting his decision already.

…

Serena slowly paced the room, peering at the clutter of curios taking up the room. Three large windows occupied one wall, the dull sunlight slivering in through the shutters.

It appeared to be like some travesty of a home office. There was a bulletin board hung up on one wall, overflowing with memos and sketches of strange Arcanum symbols she only vaguely recognized. There were notes and papers of such symbols hung around the walls, too. An outdated computer monitor was propped on top of a filing cabinet, and the layer of dust covering it indicated it had not been used in awhile.

There was an antique breakfront filled to the brim with books, and she stood in front of it, taking the time to read the titles of a few. She didn't understand most of them, but a chill ran the length of her spine as she recognized the words _witchcraft_ and _Satanism_. She stepped back in alarm, her brows drawn up to disappear behind her bangs.

Growing increasingly uncomfortable, she thought it would be best to just leave the room entirely, but her curiosity overcame her when her eyes fell on the nameless spine of a thick book tucked against the far end of the breakfront. It seemed to have been used recently, because it was not covered in dust like the others.

The book was plain and off-white in color, worn and yellowing from old age, and there was no title, just an illustration: a simple, almost crude sketch of an angel drawn in gold ink. The angel was lovely, with soft hair that fell to her feet, a gown worn snug around her bosom and fanning out around her in an empire waistline, and two powerful wings stretching out behind her. Her arms were reaching up, as if to cup the emblem above her, an upturned crescent moon.

A sense of familiarity struck Serena at the sight of the illustration, but she couldn't place where she had seen it before. She pried open the book, her fingers skimming through the pages, but there were no more pictures and the words seemed to be in a language she didn't quite understand. Still, that undercurrent of recognition remained, even as she stared at the strange arcanum symbols strewn across the pages.

"Serena."

She dropped the book with a start, and it hit the floor with a resounding thud. She whipped around to find Bobby standing solemnly under the doorway, his arms folded across his chest and a vague look of displeasure crinkling his forehead.

Serena flushed. The look he was giving her made her feel as if she'd done something wrong. "I'm sorry," She blurted, not knowing what else to say. She felt an apology was the only appropriate thing to say. She bent down and retrieved the book from the floor, hastily pushing it back into the bookcase.

Bobby didn't respond. Instead, he told her plainly, "Your room's ready." He casually turned on his heel, gesturing for her to follow him as he headed back upstairs.

Serena did as she was told without a word, scurrying after him. She stared at his back for a moment as she trailed behind him, and then bit her lip as she spoke tentatively into the silence, "Uncle Bobby, why do you own so many books?"

"I study the occult. It's a hobby." He explained evenly, not missing a beat.

"Oh." _More like borderline obsession_, Serena thought. She supposed everyone had their quirks, some quirkier than others. Her mother had liked to read a lot, too. She tamped down on the memory before it could really bother her.

The staircase led up into a hallway on the second floor, and Bobby walked up to the first door they saw. "This'll be your room," He said, almost sheepishly, "I took the liberty of putting your bag in here while you were asleep."

Serena looked at Bobby, surprise in her widened eyes. And then she couldn't help it, she smiled, gratitude overcoming her at that moment. He had decided to let her stay all along, even before she'd woken up.

Bobby closed his hand around the brass doorknob and twisted it, pushing the door open. He stepped aside to allow Serena to enter first, gesturing for her to go in.

The light came in through the only window in the room, illuminating the tiny dust particles in the air. It filtered through the sheer yellow curtains and pervaded the room with the warm buttery glow of noontime. The floor was veneered paneled wood, the wallpaper was a warm taupe color, and the room itself was sparse and somewhat dusty from disuse.

There was a wrought-iron singles bed in one corner, under the window, with feathered pillows and white sheets underneath thick beige comforters. The sheets looked to have been recently made. There was a nightstand by the bed, and a six-chest dresser nearby with a mirror propped over it. At the other end of the room there was a door, which she assumed led in to a closet.

The room was old and faintly dusty, but it was spacious and kept in good condition. Serena felt it was more than she deserved.

"It's perfect Uncle Bobby, thank you," She spoke sincerely, unable to hold herself back from hugging him again despite knowing that he was so obviously uncomfortable about it. She quickly let go, mindful of his revered personal space, and eagerly strode into the room.

Bobby blinked owlishly, not expecting her excitement. "Uh. You're welcome."

Serena went straight towards the bed and sat on it, bouncing slightly against the springy mattress. She saw her duffel bag at the foot of the bed, and smiled slightly to herself.

Bobby remained at the doorway, just observing her. He felt vaguely confused, unsure of what to think. It almost seemed as though Serena had completely switched personalities overnight. Where was the withdrawn, emotional wreck from yesterday? Now, she seemed almost cautiously optimistic, peaceful even.

Admittedly, he wasn't sure if he should've felt worried, or relieved about these turn of events.

"Serena," He spoke cautiously, walking up to stand beside her. "I know that it might be hard, but _whenever_ you're ready, I need to know what happened to you… and to your parents."

Serena was quiet, her eyes cast down and staring unseeingly into her lap, as if in meditation. After awhile, it seemed as though she'd never respond. But then she glanced up at him, a smile on her face. It was tight and pained, but it was still a smile. "How about after lunch, huh? I'm starving."

Bobby felt himself relax just a little. "I don't have much in terms of food," He admitted sheepishly.

"Then we'll go out to eat, my treat. It's the least I could do." She flashed him a dimpled grin, and for a moment she looked like how he'd remembered Irene: calm and amiable, and just a little melancholic.

The nearest town was within five miles of the salvage yard. They drove out in a beat-up old van. Bobby had explained how it was the only working vehicle he owned besides the tow-truck. Serena had quipped that with a little orange and blue paintjob, it could've passed as The Mystery Machine.

After heading into town, they stopped at a local diner. It was relatively empty, and Bobby chose a booth at the far end where no one could overhear them.

Serena had ordered a bacon cheeseburger, french-fries and a strawberry milkshake with a whipped cream topping and a cherry on top. Bobby had simply chosen the daily special, a roasted turkey sandwich. He hadn't ordered a drink, but Serena suspected he kept a flask of something in his vest pocket.

Serena devoured her bacon cheeseburger with enthusiasm, finishing it in only six bites. She washed it down with her milkshake, which she happily slurped through a bendy straw. She looked so _happy_, just enjoying her meal. It was such a far cry from her emotional episode the other day.

Bobby stared, a mixture of awe and disbelief furrowing his brows.

Serena felt his stare and looked up, flushing. "Um. Sorry. I just really love milkshakes."

Bobby frowned. "Did you eat anythin' before you got here?"

"I ate some Doritos from a vending machine before I took the bus here yesterday," Serena admitted, shrugging, "But I kind of always eat like this, so it's okay. I didn't starve or anything." She gave him a smile that she hoped was reassuring, but Bobby was too perceptive to overlook her lie.

Bobby said nothing, his frown deepening.

Serena stared at her french-fries, uncomfortable.

After a measured length of silence, he managed to say, "Serena… when did your parents die?"

Serena's gaze snapped up to look at him, her eyes widening slightly. She opened her mouth, but realized she wasn't sure what to say or where to start. She had known that this conversation was coming all along, but it still shook her to the core.

Bobby sighed, "If you still ain't comfortable—"

Serena shook her head adamantly, interrupting him. "_No_," She said, frowning, "I… it was about six months ago."

"_Six months_?" Bobby repeated incredulously, almost raising his voice, "Why did you come here only now?"

Serena cringed, leaning back into her seat. She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, and explained, "A little over a year ago, we moved to Auburn Hills, Michigan. It was the first time we actually had a real home, in a real neighborhood, and it was perfect. I—we thought it was _safe_. But after mama and papa were gone, everything changed. I was alone and I wasn't in my right mind. Who would be, after seeing what I've seen? The police questioned me after I found the bodies and—well, they sent in a psychiatrist to help me deal with it. But I guess I was still too out of it, because they put me in this institution center called Havenwyck Hospital for awhile."

"You were _institutionalized_?"

"I don't remember much. I think I was on medication and… um, Uncle Bobby, are you okay?" Serena's brows rose as Bobby shook with controlled rage, seething. He resembled a great big bristling grizzly bear. She wondered if he even realized he was staring at his turkey sandwich as if he was about to murder it.

"How are you here if you're supposed to be in a loony bin?" Bobby managed to grind out through clenched teeth.

"I got better," Serena explained, shooting him a wary look. She tossed a french-fry into her mouth and smiled cryptically.

Bobby seemed to calm down some, but only to cock an eyebrow at her in disbelief. "_That_ simple, huh?"

Serena shrugged. "Why shouldn't it be?"

"Because nothin' ever is." Bobby threw her a cryptic smile of his own.

Serena smiled gently. "I'm glad I got that out of my chest. I think that's what I really needed all along, but I was too afraid to face it. Maybe that's why I had that episode yesterday." She chuckled, and added wryly, "I guess I should've stayed at that loony bin for a little while longer."

Bobby grimaced. He didn't appreciate her joking about herself like that, as if she'd actually been crazy. She was traumatized by the whole ordeal, and emotionally exhausted, yes. But crazy? No, he was sure of it now. Crazy people didn't know they were crazy. He was also sure that the deaths of her parents were not just some random house burglary gone horribly wrong.

"You're not crazy," he assured her.

Serena propped her hand underneath her chin, tilting her head curiously. "Not anymore."

"You never were," Bobby commanded gruffly. "You're the sanest person I know."

His conviction surprised her. She didn't know whether to feel grateful or bewildered by his declaration. She smiled uncertainly. "Thank you, Uncle Bobby." And then, quite unexpectedly, she asked, "Are you going to finish that?" She pointed to his untouched turkey sandwich, which had already gone cold.

Bobby blinked, and then stared down at his plate. He shook his head, smiling slightly, "No, you go ahead."

…

* * *

**Acknowledgments:**

Sailor Moon belongs to Naoko Takeuchi. Supernatural belongs to Erik Kripke. Story belongs to me. Inspired by a novel called The Cove by Catherine Coulter.

Why yes, this IS a _Sailor Moon **x** Supernatural_ crossover. It's pretty AU. The timeline takes place at the very first season of Supernatural, somewhere around/after episode 12 and 13 (Faith and Route 666 respectively). I'm just… _experimenting_. Eventually I'll move this story to the Sailor Moon/Supernatural crossover category.

I imagine Serena would look like Brittany Snow or even a young blue-eyed Shakira. xD

If you have any questions about_ anything_, feel free to ask in a review or PM. I'd appreciate the feedback. :)


	2. Runaway

**The End's Beginning**

* * *

The sterile smell of Havenwyck had always bothered her. It made her vaguely nauseous every time she took in a deep breath. She didn't like the stark white walls and cold tiled floors, the endless maze of hallways and rooms. It all felt too impersonal. There were too many dead ends, too many dark corners, but no where to run, no where to hide. It was a bleak world that reeked of Lysol.

But she liked the smell of Trista's office, the scent of French vanilla coffee and lilies. It was here Serena could pretend she wasn't in some institution for crazy people.

The ambiance of the room was warm and atmospheric. The walls were dark cherry oak and there was a charming bookshelf in one corner brimming with scholarly literature. Trista's large, mahogany desk stood at the end of the room, and a number of awards and degrees hung on the wall behind it.

Serena was lying on the velvet-cushioned divan in the center of the room, while Trista sat on a plush leather armchair nearby, a notepad in her lap and a fountain pen between her fingers.

Serena stared up at the wood-paneled ceiling, and spoke up conversationally, "I think my roommate is trying to kill me."

Trista peered at her over her reading glasses, and then casually scribbled something into her notepad. Serena pretended not to notice.

"Why would you say that?" Trista inquired evenly, "I thought you and Deirdre got along."

Serena closed her eyes, and sighed quietly. "So did I," She admitted, frowning, "But she's been acting… _different_. I think she's angry with me, but I'm not sure why. Whatever it was, she hates me now."

Trista smiled, a well rehearsed gesture. "Some people get angry, Serena. We're only human, after all. This place isn't exactly full of reasonable people."

Only Dr. Trista Gray could say such a thing without making Serena feel like she was among those unreasonable people.

Trista was tall, with smooth mocha skin, unbelievable garnet eyes and long black hair that fell to her waist. By all accounts, she should've been modeling in Paris, but instead she was psychoanalyzing mental patients in Havenwyck. The woman was beautiful and elegant, and in some ways Serena both disliked and admired her.

Serena disliked her because she was her therapist. Perhaps if their relationship hadn't been forced into this doctor-patient routine, they might've been friends. But Trista was withdrawn and impersonal, almost emotionless. She could be compassionate and comforting, but that was her training, and Serena wasn't so desperate for companionship to believe that Trista's sympathy wasn't just a part of her practice.

Serena wasn't like the rest of them. She accepted Trista as her therapist and _not_ her friend, the same way a penguin might accept it's incapability to fly—with grudging resignation.

Smiling wryly, Serena said, "Deirdre is a recovering anorexic. She doesn't have a history of anger issues. She couldn't hurt a fly. She's nice… _was_ nice. Now she's getting out of control, right under your nose."

"I'm sure you're just exaggerating."

"I saw her with one of the orderlies," Serena frowned, hesitating. "They were… _together_."

Trista raised a shapely brow, "That's quite an accusation."

"I'm not accusing anything, I'm telling you what I saw," Serena insisted.

"Do you know which one of the orderlies?"

"You'll have to handle this issue with _her_." They may not have been in the best of terms lately, but she _knew_ Deirdre. She cared about her. And this wasn't like her. She needed help, and the only way to get it was if she were confronted with whatever it was that got her behaving so strangely. Serena knew Deirdre wouldn't listen to her, but maybe she'd listen to Trista.

Trista sighed, "Fine. I'll look into this personally. In the meantime, I hope you remain civil with her, Serena. Perhaps you might've upset her without realizing it, and that's why she's been cold towards you."

Serena gave Trista a blank look. "Yeah, maybe."

"You should confront her about it, try to reconcile."

In spite of the concern in Trista's voice, Serena knew this was not merely a request. "I'll _try_," she said, nodding curtly.

After their session was over, Serena left the office and entered the white halls with the intention of finding Deirdre and apologizing for whatever it was she knew she didn't do wrong.

She found Deirdre in the bedroom they shared. She was with another orderly; he was different from the last one Serena had seen with her. They were on Serena's side of the room, on_ her_ bed, a tangled mess of limbs.

"Close the damn door!" Deirdre snarled, glaring at Serena over the shoulder of the man on top of her. They were still dressed, which Serena was exceedingly grateful for. Nothing had happened yet.

Serena felt her face flush at the scene. "Get out," She ordered, glaring at the orderly.

The man quickly got up to leave, despite Deirdre's protest, forced to walk around Serena to exit through the only door.

"Bitch," Deirdre sneered, "Why'd you have to go and do that for? I was having _fun_!"

"What is wrong with you?" Serena demanded, incredulous. "This isn't like you at all, Deirdre!"

The Deirdre she'd known had been a mousy, deeply insecure young woman who avidly believed in monogamy. The woman before her now was like a stranger.

"And how's that a bad thing?" Deirdre retorted, her mouth curling into a dark grin. "I'm _improving_ my life. My whole life I was this pathetic, insecure little pushover. But life is short, so I might as well have some fun with it while it lasts. Especially in this dump."

"You need help," Serena insisted, frowning.

Deirdre threw her head back and laughed. It was cruel and derisive, and it sent a sense of trepidation up Serena's spine.

"Well then, it's a good thing I'm in here, aren't I?" Deirdre said, her grin twisting into a sneer as she gestured her arms around the room, "And who are you to tell me I need help, _hmm_? You can't even sleep without your meds. And when you _do_ sleep—it's _hilarious_." She made a face of mock pity, her hands on either side of her face as if in distress, "Poor little Serena, crying over her dead parents in her sleep, begging them to forgive her, begging them not to leave her all alone!" She laughed uproariously. "You're _pathetic_."

Serena felt her throat clench, the anger and hurt rising in her chest, but she forced it down. "This isn't about me," She managed to say, "This is about you."

She suddenly felt Deirdre's long, spindly fingers closing around her neck and _squeezing_, and then she was shoved against the wall with a ferocity that nearly knocked her out cold, her hip hitting the nightstand and rattling the lamp propped over it.

"On no," Deirdre cooed malevolently, her mouth against Serena's ear, "This is about _you_. It's _always_ been about you, Serena." She drew away, an ugly grin splitting her face, and when she blinked her eyes were as black as pitch. She wasn't Deirdre anymore. She wasn't even _human_.

Serena struggled, a strangled scream never leaving her throat. Her fingers clawed at Deirdre's forearms and her feet kicked wildly, but Deirdre remained unfazed. She didn't even flinch. She was so much stronger than Serena, stronger than what was considered humanly possible. The look in Deirdre's eyes was murderous, insane, and Serena found herself genuinely terrified of this monster.

"You think you're so clever, don't you? Tell me, how'd you do it? How could such a pathetic little girl manage to _kill _my brothers?" Deirdre bared her teeth in an ugly scowl. Her eyes were dark, angry pools of ink. "Was it magic? Holy Fire? Dragon's breath? Ha, no, I heard you can't get those anymore…"

Serena couldn't respond, she could barely even breathe. She didn't understand what Deirdre was going on about at all. Desperately, her fingernails dug into Deirdre's arms until they drew blood.

Deirdre scowled. "It doesn't matter. You got _lucky_. My brothers were idiots. They were supposed to kill you _first_. Your mommy and daddy were just a bonus. But I won't make the same mistake." She leered, "You see, I've been _careful_. I've been watching you, just waiting for my chance to _gut_ you like a fish. And you know what? Now I can't imagine how my brothers could've possibly gotten done in by someone like you." With her free hand, Deirdre grabbed Serena's arm and dug her fingernails over the flesh until blood gushed out of the narrow wounds that trailed behind her fingertips. "I'm going to_ enjoy_ killing you."

The pain burned through her arm, and Serena wanted to scream, but her teeth were clenched tight. She screwed her eyes shut, tears gushing through her eyelids, her face contorted in pain.

"Did you know that your mommy begged for her life, Serena? Did you know that she was calling out to you, begging for you? And your daddy, oh, he was a _fighter_. I wish I was there to see his face when the light finally left his eyes. I bet it was _beautiful_." Deirdre laughed, hysterical and malicious.

Serena's eyes snapped open, dark and narrowed with rage. Her hand reached for the lamp on the nightstand, and with all her strength she bashed it against the side of Deirdre's head.

Deirdre fell on her side with a grunt, blood oozing from her temple. She tried to get up, but Serena was quick to bring the lamp down on Deirdre's head a second time, and then a third. When she raised the lamp over her head to strike Deirdre for the fourth and final time, Deirdre brought her palms up and somehow Serena was shoved against the wall by some kind of invisible force, the lamp slipping out of her hand and propelling across the room.

Serena slid down and collapsed in a heap on the floor, her head spinning. She felt the blood and adrenaline pounding in her ears, the sense of vertigo threatening to empty the contents of her stomach. She struggled to raise her head and look up, certain that Deirdre would be standing over her, ready to tear her to pieces.

But when she looked up, Deirdre wasn't alone. Trista Gray stood behind her, her arm around Deirdre's neck and holding her still. Deirdre struggled uselessly, desperately, and there was utter fear in her pitch-black eyes.

Deirdre opened her mouth wide, and a thick pillar of black smoke burst through her gaping lips with a roar. Deirdre went limp, out cold, but the black smoke was like shadow and fog, pulsating, fuming, and_ alive_. It prowled low and slithered through the crack under the door, fleeing, because there was no other way to describe it. Serena couldn't believe what she's just seen.

"I think it's time you check out of this hospital, Serena," Trista spoke evenly, her face calm and impassive, "It appears it isn't fit for you anymore."

Serena barely registered what the woman was saying. Her head pounded, and the blood oozed out of her arm in slow torrents. Her throat hurt, she could barely speak. She felt her eyelids grow heavy, her breathing shallow and uneven. It occurred to her that she was going to die. She closed her eyes, knowing that she may never open them again.

And then Serena woke up, too stunned to find the will to scream.

In a slight state of panic, it took her a few seconds to realize where she was: in her Uncle Bobby's guest room, lying under thick beige comforters and plain white pillows. _Safe_.

She didn't move, didn't even blink as she stared up at the ceiling, but her body shook with unsuppressed terror. The nightmare made her heart race, her breathing curt and shallow, and her skin tingle with gooseflesh. The shell-shocking fear left a lead weight on her chest that made her doubt she could even sit up.

Serena sucked in a long, shuddering breath of air in an attempt to compose herself, pushing away the covers and swinging her long legs over the edge of her bed. She glanced at her digital wristwatch, which flickered _4:57 AM_ in a manner which she felt certain was mocking her.

She groaned and stumbled onto her feet, standing on her toes and bringing her arms above her head in a languid stretch. Serena yawned and brought her hand to her face to rub the sleep out of her eyes. She gasped quietly to herself, surprised to find fresh tears brimming around the thick lashes of her eyelids. She had assumed it was her own sweat at first, but even now the tears slid down her cheeks unbidden.

Serena caught her quivering bottom lip between her teeth. Frustrated, she leaned against the nearest wall and held her face in her hands, mumbling groggily, almost imploringly, "Get out of my head."

It disturbed her more than she'd care to admit, but it was only a nightmare—no matter how terrible, it remained a twisted figment of her imagination, and nothing more. She repeated it in her head until it became a mantra.

"It's just a stupid nightmare," Serena whispered into the impersonal silence of the room, wrapping her arms around herself reassuringly as a shudder coursed through her, but she didn't feel any surer of her own words.

She shook her head, took another deep breath and mentally kicked herself for being so easily frightened.

Serena turned on the lamp on her nightstand and moved to stand in front of her bedroom window, bowing a little to peer through the windowpane and observe the weather outside.

It was one of those cold, foggy mornings. The kind that made her feel like she _really_ should've been buried under a thick blanket and fast asleep, instead of staring blankly at the condensation clinging to her window so early in the morning. But she already knew she wasn't going to fall asleep again anytime soon.

She inspected her cotton pajamas and noticed they were soaked in her own sweat, the flimsy yellow fabric clinging to her skin. They were old and too tight on her, the hem of her pajama top stopping just above her navel while the ends of the pajama bottoms dangled over her ankles. It was an old pajama set she'd worn when she was fourteen, but hadn't stopped to consider that when she had hastily grabbed them out of her closet.

Serena frowned, peeling off the soft, soft material until they fell around her ankles. She stepped over it and sauntered out of her bedroom, towards the bathroom, miffed at ruining her only nightclothes.

When she entered the bathroom in the hall, switching on the lights, she found herself unable to look away from the small mirror propped over the sink. Her skin was slick and gleaming with sweat, and the florescent lights on the ceiling pronounced her blanched skin. Her eyes were gaunt, there were blackish circles surrounding her eyelids and making the blue of her eyes seem brighter somehow, smoldering like embers in their dark sockets.

She looked like a ghost.

Serena grabbed a clean towel from a nearby hamper and hung it over the mirror. It seemed absurd and a little self-deprecating that her own reflection upset her, but she'd had a phobia of ghosts when she was a kid, and it didn't help that her nightmare was still fresh in her mind, making her unreasonably paranoid. She was glad no one else could see her in such a sorry state.

Serena examined the gauze wrapped around her forearm, carefully peeling it off to reveal the faded white scars underneath. She couldn't remember how they got there, not really. Every time she tried, her head hurt and the wound would seemingly sting. But it was healing quickly. She'd always been a quick healer growing up, but she was self-conscious about it. It wasn't something she usually told people about herself.

Disposing the gauze into a trash bin, she gingerly stepped into to the bathtub and drew the shower curtains closed, stripping off her undergarments and turning on the shower. Hot water burst from the showerhead and washed over her, flushing her pale skin and restoring the healthy glow of her complexion. Serena closed her eyes as condensed steam rose from the ceramic floor and enveloped her in its wispy embrace.

She grabbed the soap and scrubbed her skin until it was flushed and raw. As the showerhead sprinkled hot water and rinsed away the soap suds on her skin, she squeezed a bottle of unscented shampoo into her hands and combed her fingers through her long hair.

Kneading her hair, Serena glanced at the mirror on the sink without thinking, as if her eyes were drawn to it. The towel had slid off of the mirror and now pooled over the sink basin, and she could see her reflection again. Her skin wasn't too pale anymore, but now flushed and pristine.

Serena turned off the showerhead and carefully stepped out of the bathtub, grabbing the towel from the sink and wrapping it tightly around her torso. She stood directly in front of the mirror, and tried to smile. At least she looked better now, more alive than she really felt. She blew out a long sigh that wasn't quite relief.

Returning to her bedroom, she twisted the moisture out of her hair with another towel, and let it air dry before gathering it up into a loose bun above the nape of her neck.

After slipping into a clean pair of underwear, Serena shimmied into skinny jeans and pulled a red, slimming woolen sweater over her head. She tucked thick tube socks over her feet and headed downstairs, nearly tripping on a stray book on her way to the kitchen.

Serena switched on the kitchen lights, her eyes taking in the scarcity of the room. It looked like it hadn't been used in a long time.

When she searched through the fridge, she wasn't surprised to find it relatively empty, except for a few expired condiments and half-empty bottles of El Sol beer. If his wide girth was any indication, Bobby ate out more often than not.

When she looked into the cupboards, all she found were neat piles of dusty china plates and tableware, and a bottle of Southern Comfort hidden in the back. She found a peacemaker stowed away in the cabinet under the sink and promptly pretended she never saw it. At this point she gave up looking for anything edible, half-convinced Bobby was a gun-totting mild alcoholic.

She withdrew from the cabinets and wiped her hands on her jeans to get rid of the dust that had caught on her skin, placing them on her hips as she eyed the kitchen. It had a stove, an oven, and a variety of cooking utensils and tableware. All it needed was the _food_.

It only took her a minute to decide to take the keys to the van, which Bobby had left on the coffee table in the living room, and drive in to town with every intention of visiting the local supermarket. She had about 300 dollars in cash with her, but she didn't mind spending every cent she had stocking up Bobby's kitchen with some much needed groceries. After all that he'd done for her, it was the least she could do.

…

Bobby woke up at the crack of dawn, like he always did, and the first thing he'd done when he got out of bed was check his mobile phone for any missed calls or messages, specifically from the Winchesters. There were none.

After he got dressed in his usual flak vest, trucker's cap and jeans, he spent the next twenty minutes literally waiting for his mobile phone to start ringing at any moment, anticipating Sam and Dean's call, before realizing he was being a fool.

It had been almost two days since he'd last spoke to them. As soon as Serena had told him that her parents' last place of residence was Auburn Hills, Michigan, he'd relayed the information to Dean. He hadn't heard a word from the Winchester brothers since, but he didn't expect Dean and Sam to call him so early in the morning, and it wasn't likely that they'd gathered much information in such a short amount of time anyway.

But Bobby was anxious. If it had been _him _investigating the Campbell's murders, he wouldn't rest until he discovered every bit of information about their deaths. But Dean and Sam didn't operate like Bobby, and it certainly wasn't personal for them. To them it was just another hunt.

Bobby grimaced at the thought, bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to suppress an oncoming headache. He knew it was no use mulling over his troubles now. And besides, he had enough to worry about with his new guest.

With that in mind, Bobby stepped out of his bedroom and into the hall. He stopped in front of Serena's bedroom, carefully rapping his knuckles against the door.

He doubted she'd be awake, but he decided to wake her up. It might do her some good. She rarely got out of her room unless it was to eat or bathe. Some nights she couldn't sleep, and others she'd be out cold until noon. Her sleeping pattern was unpredictable, but Bobby understood that dealing with the death of loved ones tended to do that.

"Serena? Are you up?" Bobby called. "I was thinking we'd go out to eat for breakfast, if that's alright with you." There was no response, and the silence unnerved him. "Serena?" Bobby closed his fingers around the doorknob and practically flung the door ajar. When he realized the room was empty, a heavy sense of apprehension twisted in his chest.

Downstairs, someone screamed.

Bobby knew at once it was Serena. He reacted instinctively, sprinting out of the room and bounding down the staircase, his hand on the revolver he'd tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He felt the faint whiff of smoke, and realized it was coming from the kitchen. With increasing dread, he rushed towards it.

But the moment he stepped foot through the kitchen entryway, Bobby stopped in his tracks, as if his feet were suddenly glued to the floor. The sight before him left him thoroughly paralyzed with shock.

Serena was standing over the stove with a spatula in one hand and an old off-white apron around her waist—the same apron which had originally belonged to Karen, Bobby noticed. It was big on her; she had had to tie the apron's straps twice around her waist for it to fit properly, and she was humming a song to herself. It was off-key, but he thought he recognized the tune to 'Hey Jude'.

The smell of smoke was just from the link sausages cooking in the frying pan over the stove. Occasionally, the cooking oil would sizzle and pop, nearly grazing Serena, and she'd let out an abrupt, shrill cry of surprise. Bobby realized it must have been the same reason why he'd heard her scream earlier.

On the small kitchen table, there were three saucers individually piled with bacon strips, link sausages, and a variety of eggs sunnyside-upped, scrambled, over-easy, and hardboiled. The smell of food was intoxicating.

Bobby was quick to put away his handgun before she looked up, noticing him standing under the doorway for the first time.

"Good morning, Uncle Bobby," Serena greeted, smiling amiably. She turned off the stove and proceeded to place the link sausages into a nearby plate. Serena wiped her hands on the apron, and added, a little coyly, "I hope you don't mind, but I took the van into town and bought some groceries. I made breakfast, but—um, I guess that goes without saying."

Bobby blinked. "I thought you said you were a lousy cook."

Serena laughed sheepishly. "I am. I mean, I could never cook as well as my mom. She used to make the best lemon pies in the world…" Her smile wavered only slightly at the memory.

Bobby noticed, and decided to change the subject. "How long have you been up?"

Serena stared at Bobby and realized she'd been lost in thought. She shrugged, took the plate of link sausages and placed it with the rest of the breakfast on the table. "A few hours," She admitted flippantly, "I've been staying here for almost a week, I thought I might as well be useful and cook for you."

Bobby frowned. "Not that I ain't grateful for all this, but I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know when you go out. Ain't no sense to just run off like that."

"Sorry," Serena said, smiling sheepishly. "I mean… I didn't mean it. I won't do it again, Uncle Bobby."

"Serena, don't apologize," Bobby sighed, a little bothered with how hopelessly contrite Serena seemed to be around him. Most teenagers hated it when adults told them what to do. "I ain't mad, and you didn't do anything wrong. It's just—I guess you could say I was worried. Next time, just let me know when you're going anywhere."

Serena nodded gently. "You don't need to worry about that, Uncle Bobby. I don't like going out much these days, anyway."

There was silence afterward, and Bobby felt he should change the subject. He glanced at the breakfast on the table. It was practically a small buffet. "The food looks… good. Smells good, too."

Serena smiled, pleased upon hearing his approval. "Thanks! I didn't know how you liked your eggs, so I just did all of them."

It was easy for her attention to get distracted, Bobby noticed. In fact, she seemed almost ditsy and bumbling, but Bobby knew better. He knew an act when he saw one, no matter how well done.

"Well, I guess since you're up we could eat together." Serena announced genially, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Bobby obliged mutely, if a little awkwardly. He had not eaten at his own table in years.

Serena set an empty plate in front of him, so he was free to pile as much food as he wanted onto his place. She sat on the seat next to him; her own plate was already prepared and piled high with eggs and bacon.

Piling extra helpings of bacon and link sausages onto his plate, Bobby prepared to dig in, his fork stabbing at a link sausage and bringing it to his mouth. But he stopped short when he noticed that Serena hadn't touched her food. She was silent, her eyes closed, her face serene, and her hands lightly clasped together.

Bobby looked away, pretending not to notice. He focused on eating his breakfast. The sunnyside-ups were runny, the scrambled eggs had bits of egg shells in them, the bacon was a little brittle and some of the link sausages were burnt, but overall, it was a decent meal. And to Bobby, it was heaven. It had been years since he'd had a home-cooked meal.

He didn't look up from his plate again until he heard the clinking of silverware against a ceramic plate, when Serena was happily shoving forkfuls of eggs into her mouth, oblivious to his staring.

"What do you hunt, Uncle Bobby?" Serena spoke up conversationally.

Startled, Bobby nearly choked on his bacon. "Huh—what?" He sputtered.

Serena stared at him, curious. "You're a hunter, right? I mean, why else would you keep guns around?"

"Uh, well I… yeah, I am." Bobby said, eyeing her warily.

Serena nodded knowingly. "I can tell you're a hunter because poppa used to hunt, too. But momma hated it. I didn't either, to be honest. I really don't understand the appeal of killing woodland creatures, especially if it's just for sport. I mean, have you ever seen the movie Bambi?"

It occurred to Bobby, with increasing relief, that Serena was talking about hunting _animals_.

"Uh, _Bambi_? Can't say I have," Bobby admitted sheepishly.

Serena looked mildly affronted. She placed her palms on the table and leaned forward, shooting him an incredulous look. "_No way_. Everyone knows Bambi. I've _got_ to make you watch it sometime."

Bobby chuckled slightly at the determination in her eyes. "To be honest, I don't hunt as often as I use to anymore. I'm more of a huntin' _consultant_ these days. I let some ol' huntin' buddies know where to find good game." Well, he wasn't necessarily _lying_. It was the truth, if a little stretched. "But occasionally, I get together with 'em, if they need the extra help."

Serena didn't meet his eyes, as she coyly asked, "Were you hunting buddies with my dad?"

Bobby looked at her, his brows raised. But before he could admit anything, the sound of Rumsfeld's deafening barks from outside cut him off. His first instinct was to reach for his gun, but he hesitated, aware that Serena was still with him.

"Stay here," Bobby ordered, getting up. "Don't get up."

Serena wanted to protest, but she just nodded, smiling uncertainly. The gravity in his voice had left no room for objection.

Bobby got up and left the kitchen, and Serena watched him go, her smile curling into a frown. She waited until he was gone before she stood up, walking over to the window and carefully peering outside from behind the curtains.

…

Bobby stomped into the living room and grabbed the sawed-off shotgun he hid between the sofa's cushions before heading to the front door. He peered out of the door's window, brought the weapon over his chest and cocked it with a flourish, but saw nothing unusual. Rumsfeld was not in his range of sight, but he could still hear the dog's howling as if it was right by his ear.

He twisted the doorknob and practically kicked the door open, his shotgun aimed and ready. He would've readily pulled the trigger, too, were it not for the fact that he recognized the intruders standing in front of his porch.

"Whoa! Bobby, it's us!" Dean raised his hand up, stepping back. Sam was standing a little farther behind him, just as startled.

"Goddamnit, I could've shot you both!" Bobby exclaimed, quickly recovering from his own surprise upon seeing them here. He did not lower his weapon. He eyed the brothers warily, noting with mild surprise that Sam had grown taller since he'd last seen him.

"Good to see you, too," Dean muttered wryly.

Bobby closed the door behind him and headed further away from the porch, gesturing for them to follow him.

Dean raised a brow. "You're not gonna invite us in?"

"Precaution," Bobby said. "Besides, it's a mess in there anyway."

Dean's mouth twisted into a frown, skeptical, but he merely shrugged. "You mind calling your dog off? It's been barking at Sam like crazy."

"It was barking at_ both_ of us, Dean," Sam grated, glaring at him.

"No, just you. I mean, did you even see the way it was trying to jump out and tear your head off, man?"

Bobby shoved his middle finger and thumb into his mouth and whistled, it was high-pitched and nearly deafening, and suddenly Rumsfeld went silent.

"Both of you shut the hell up and tell me what you're doing here," Bobby commanded.

Dean and Sam stared at Bobby for a moment, mildly impressed.

Sam was the first to recover, "We're here because of the Campbell's."

Bobby's eyes widened slightly. "You found something?" He hadn't expected them to work so quickly. Perhaps he'd misjudged them? But that wasn't important now. "What did you learn?"

Dean griped petulantly, "Would you mind lowering your sawed-off first?"

"_No._"

"Right," Dean grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather coat, "I almost forgot what a paranoid coot you still are."

"And don't you forget it, boy," Bobby quipped, smirking patronizingly.

Sam interrupted their banter, his voice grim, "It was demons."

Dean and Bobby both froze, staring at Sam as if he'd said something unseemly: Dean with a frown, and Bobby with a look as if he'd been doused with cold water. The mood suddenly became cold and grim among them.

"It's the only explanation," Sam went on, "When we checked the crime scene, there were traces of sulfur everywhere. The Campbell's _seemed _like they were just butchered in the autopsy reports, but only if you don't know a thing or two about occult sacrifices."

"And the murder suspects, they were just normal people before it happened, no record of violence or crime whatsoever. They had to have been possessed; a witness even said she saw one of their eyes go pitch black. It all checks out," Dean confirmed, "But this… this goes a bit beyond whatever we've dealt with. That's why we came to see you."

"A phone call would've sufficed," Bobby grumbled.

"_No_, it wouldn't have. That's not the only reason why we're here," Sam added, and he gave Bobby a hard look. "The Campbell's had a _daughter_, Bobby."

Bobby purposely kept his expression blank.

"Her name's Serena; Blonde, blue-eyed, pretty little thing." Dean explained, smiling wryly. Bobby shot him a withering look, which Dean promptly ignored as he awkwardly cleared his throat. "Uh, she was institutionalized after their murders. Apparently she was diagnosed with something like post-traumatic stress disorder—whatever, they're probably wrong. She stayed in there for awhile, until two weeks ago, when she broke out."

"_What_?"

"Oh yeah," Dean went on, clearly skeptical himself. "Her roommate attacked her, and she ended up getting eight stitches on her arm. But you should've seen the other girl. Her face was a freaking _mess_. They took them both to the ER, stitched Blondie up and sedated her, but apparently not enough, because she managed to knock out the nurse, steal her clothes, and walk out of there Harrison Ford style. Hell, I think I'm in love."

Bobby was just about ready to snap at Dean, but Sam interrupted with impeccable timing. "We think that her roommate might have been possessed, too," He said, shooting Dean a withering look of his own, "We spoke to her about it. She had no recollection of the past two weeks or the fact that she'd assaulted Serena at all, but the last thing she remembered was a huge black cloud."

Bobby messaged his temple, clearly troubled. "Son of a bitch…" He muttered, to no one in particular.

Sam and Dean exchanged grim looks.

"There's… something else," Dean said, slowly, "Kenneth Campbell, he was a hunter. Like us. We searched his house, and there was a trapdoor under his basement, it led into a secret room full of rock salt and silver bullets—hell, the guns alone could support a small army."

"I know."

Sam furrowed his brows, indignation creeping into his expression, "You _knew_? You knew and you didn't tell us?"

"He was _retired_."

"It doesn't matter. You don't just leave something like that out, Bobby, not unless you've got something to hide," Sam grated. There was accusation in his voice.

Bobby shook with anger, ready to bark out a retort, but Dean stood between the two like a shield, clearly trying to mollify the two bickering men before things got out of hand. "Bobby, look… we need to find that girl," He started, warily. "She's in danger. Whatever killed her parents is trying to finish the job. And if you know anything that might help us, anything at all…"

Bobby looked Dean in the eyes, his gaze hard, and said evenly, "I don't."

"You're _lying_," Sam accused, incensed.

"_Sam_," Dean said, shooting his brother a warning look, his brows furrowed. Sam stubbornly glared back.

Bobby sighed, frustrated. "Look, I appreciate that you boys went through the trouble to look into this, and I owe you both, but I think I should handle this hunt from now on. I knew Kenneth, so I might know where to find his daughter. But I'm gonna do this _alone_. In the meantime, you boys can go back to lookin' for your father."

Dean stared at Bobby with an incredulous look, not quite sure what to say to that. Instead, he quipped mockingly, "Are you breaking up with us?"

Sam, however, did not find the situation funny and did not keep his indignation to himself. "You can't just send us on a hunt and then tell us to let it go. The only reason why we came here in the first place was because we thought you could _help_. And now you're telling us you don't need _our _help anymore? Forget it. We can handle this, with or without you. This is _our _hunt."

Bobby glared up at Sam through narrowed eyes. "If I recall correctly you didn't even _want _this hunt."

Sam scowled, "That was different! That was before—!"

"Before _what_?" Bobby snapped, interrupting him, "What happened there that got you riled up? Because I get the feeling you boys ain't telling me everything."

"Yeah well, what comes around goes around," Dean grumbled.

Sam said nothing, his jaw set.

"_What happened_," Bobby repeated grimly.

Dean glanced at Sam, frowning, and then his gaze fell on Bobby again. He sighed, running his hand over his hair. "The night the Campbell's were murdered… it was the same night, the same exact _time_ that Jessica died."

Bobby furrowed his brows, perplexed. "Jessica?"

"She was my girlfriend," Sam explained tightly.

Bobby's eyes widened, something like dread twisting in his gut. "What in the hell is going on?"

…

Serena watched the scene unfold as Bobby spoke to the two men. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but she felt worried when their conversation seemed to become more and more intense. They were clearly arguing, their body languages indicating tension.

The two strangers were young, probably mid-twenties, tall, masculine and physically fit. But Bobby had a shotgun, so Serena wasn't too worried about her uncle, not really. Still, she wondered who these men were, and why they suddenly came here without warning.

Bobby seemed to know the men, but that didn't make her feel any less wary of them. Serena tried not to think that this was about her somehow. It wouldn't be the first time she'd let her paranoia get the better of her.

Serena shook her head briefly, as if to shake off her misguided apprehension. She turned away from the window to walk back to the table and finish her breakfast, but when she saw Trista Gray standing by the stove, Serena froze.

…

As Sam and Dean explained what had happened to them in the last six months, Bobby felt more and more uneasy. "How can you be sure your girlfriend's murder is linked to the Campbell's?"

"The sulfur," Sam said, his jaw set. "I smelt it before Jessica was… before she died. It was like rotten eggs. It was the same smell all over the Campbell's residence. They died the exact same night, at the exact same time."

Bobby pursed his lips. "That could just be a coincidence."

"Bobby, you believe in a lot of things, but coincidences aren't one of them," Sam stated grimly.

"We're just getting _started_," Dean said, "We checked the Campbell's background, see if Serena had any relatives she might go to while she was on the run. They covered their tracks real good, we almost missed it. But Kenneth—he had a sister. _Mary_." Dean grimaced, running his hand over his face, "How the hell could I have missed it? _Campbell_. That was mom's maiden name."

"Kenneth was our mom's older brother," Sam explained tightly. "He met Irene when she was already pregnant with Serena; they hit it off and got married. Kenneth adopted Serena soon after that."

Bobby couldn't believe it. For all the years he'd known Kenneth Campbell, he'd _never_ mentioned his family to him or even Irene. Kenneth had always been secretive about his past, but Bobby never would've guessed that his sister had been John Winchester's late wife. "Kenneth never spoke of his family. How are you sure?"

"He kept a journal." Dean said, and reached into his coat, pulling out a thick, worn leather-bound book from its inner pocket, "Supposedly they had a falling out and never spoke to each other again, but he kept a picture of her. Don't you get it, Bobby? Their deaths are _linked _somehow. We've just gotten that much closer to finding who killed mom and Jess. We _need_ to find that girl. She's our best lead, we need to protect her until we find dad."

"You contacted your father?" The wheels in Bobby's head were reeling. If John Winchester knew of Serena and the fact that she may lead him to Mary's killer, he'd stop at nothing to find her, and she'd be in more danger than she already was. Bobby _wasn't_ going to subject Serena to the life that had killed her parents.

"I've called him a dozen times already. He won't answer his phone," Dean said, frowning.

Bobby inwardly cursed.

…

"You're not real," Serena whimpered, trembling, pressing her back up against the window in an attempt to be further away from the olive-skinned woman. "You're just my imagination. I'm dreaming."

Trista shook her head. She was dressed in the same white coat, black skirt and maroon blouse Serena had last seen her in, more than two weeks ago. "This is not a dream, Serena."

Serena shut her eyes tightly, willing her hallucination to pass. "I'm going crazy again, aren't I?" When she opened her eyes, Trista was standing only a foot away from her. Serena felt herself press her back harder against the window.

"You need to leave, Serena. You're in danger."

"You're not real," Serena argued desperately, refusing to look at Trista.

Trista spoke grimly, "If you stay here, your uncle will be in danger as well."

Serena's gaze snapped up to look Trista in the eyes, alarmed. The woman's face was calm, she gave no allusion that she was deceiving Serena at all.

Serena set her jaw, balled her fist and punched Trista in the face. "Ow!" She winced, cradling her aching knuckles. It was like punching a solid brick wall!

"If I were a figment of your imagination, you would not have felt that." Trista informed lightly, a hint of amusement in her eyes. She hadn't even flinched at the assault. It was almost as though she'd been expecting it. "Are you convinced that I am real yet?"

Serena shot her a withering look. "What the hell are you?"

"A friend," Trista said simply. "Here to offer you some friendly advice. You need to leave this place, you need to run. Staying here will only put you and your uncle in danger."

"And why should I trust you?" Serena said, eyeing the taller woman warily. "Why should I believe in anything you say?"

"Because your first carelessness cost you your parents," Trista explained, her voice sharp and impassive. "And it forced _me_ to intervene."

Serena's eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"

Trista did not answer, expressionless.

"What are you _talking _about?" Serena demanded again, stepping forward, "What happened to my parents? Tell me!"

"If you listen to me now, your uncle will not have to face the same fate your parents did."

Serena glared hard at Trista, her eyes darkening dangerously. "If you know what's good for you, you won't lay a finger on him," She threatened, circling around Trista, edging closer and closer toward the kitchen knife she'd left lying by the sink. If Trista was aware of this, she did not seem to care.

"I have no intention of hurting either of you. I only want to help," Trista assured her. "Your memories are fragmented, your grief forced you to forget, but you must remember now. I am your friend, and I am _telling _you that you are in danger if you do not run now."

Serena stared at the floor, her mind reeling. How could this woman expect Serena to just trust her? She was half-convinced she'd made Trista all up, that the past six months were just a nightmare she'd imagined to avoid dealing with her grief in reality.

"Bobby Singer will die, and it will be your fault—unless you leave now."

Serena shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, tensing. It was easier to believe that she was going crazy, than think that this woman was trying to help her, _whoever _she was—because Serena was sure she was no therapist. She'd thought that after Havenwyck she could just start over and leave the past behind her, but she should've known she couldn't just run away, not from something like this.

"Why? _How_?"

There was no response, and when Serena looked up, she was staring at an empty kitchen. Alarmed, she ran out of the kitchen and into the living room, but by then she was just confirming what she already knew. Trista was gone.

Serena felt something in her clenched fist, something that had not been there before. When she brought her hand up to look at it, uncurling her fist, she realized it was the keys to Bobby's van.

…

Bobby had already had it in his mind to lead the boys on a wild goose chase. He would give them a fake address and claim that it may be where to find Serena, and meanwhile he'd make sure they'd never realize she was living with him. He would convince them to give him Kenneth's journal, it was the closest link they had to Serena and he couldn't afford to let them learn more about her. He'd give them false information. Eventually, they'd stop looking.

But if they were anything like their father, they wouldn't back down. They were Winchesters, and Winchesters were as stubborn as a Pitbull with its teeth sunk into the flesh of its victim: they don't let go until they were dead, a personality trait that Bobby always resented about John Winchester. He just hoped Sam and Dean weren't as damaged as their father.

However, that plan was completely blown out of the water when he heard the roar of a car engine. Bobby felt both alarm and dread overwhelm him, and he sprinted towards the noise on instinct. He could hear Sam and Dean following close behind him, calling out to him, but at that point he no longer cared if Sam and Dean knew of Serena's true whereabouts or not.

He got there in time to see the van's taillights careen and disappear into the highway.

"No…" He said, panic slowly taking hold of him, "Serena!"

"Bobby, what's going on?" Dean said, nearly out of breath. He grabbed Bobby's shoulder, but the older man roughly shoved him away and ran back to the house, entering it through the backdoor.

Sam watched him disappear into the house before he shot Dean a pointed look, not quite certain of what he'd just heard. "Did he just say Serena?"

…

Serena was driving seventy miles per hour on the highway, her knuckles white as she gripped hard on the steering wheel.

What the hell was she _doing_? She was taking advice from a figment of her imagination. It sounded so absurd, she wanted to stop the car and turn around, and she had half a mind to do just that. But she knew she couldn't. It didn't feel right. She was afraid, but not for herself. For Bobby. A large part of her knew that this was real; this was reality, as screwed up as it seemed.

Whoever—_what_ever Trista was, she had no reason to lie. If she'd wanted Serena dead, she would've killed her in Bobby's kitchen. And even if she _was_ dangerous, at least Serena had led Trista away from Bobby. This was about her, she knew that now, and she wasn't going to let Bobby get involved. She wasn't going to put any more of her family in danger, not ever again.

"I'm glad you've come to your senses."

Startled, Serena swerved into the opposite lane. Cars honked and screeched and drivers proceeded to shout obscenities in her direction, but she managed to avoid a collision and steered back into the right lane.

"Oh my God!" She screamed, glaring with wide disbelieving eyes at Trista, who was sitting comfortably on the passenger's seat which had been _empty_ only a moment ago.

Trista patiently stared back at Serena's disdainful gaze, absently tapping her red-painted fingernails against her knee. "Would you like to hit me again? I assure you the pain would be just as real as the last time."

"How do you keep doing that?" Serena exclaimed, indignant, keeping her eyes focused on the road, "Just… _popping up_ without warning? And, by the way, don't do that while I'm—_ever_!"

"You always did have a bit of a temper," Trista smiled wanly, almost nostalgic.

Serena briefly glanced at the older woman, perplexed, but quickly disregarded it. "You picked that up while you were psychoanalyzing me, doc?"

Trista's smile vanished, and she was expressionless again. "No."

"Tell me what you want, then," Serena said, her voice almost breaking, "Where do I go from here? I left Uncle Bobby's, and now I'm back exactly where I started when I escaped your mental institution, so what now? Because I sure as heck don't feel any safer."

"They'll follow you," Trista told her.

"They?"

"Bobby Singer and the Winchester brothers," Trista explained simply, "You might want to get a new car. This one doesn't exactly scream _inconspicuous_."

"I left a note," Serena insisted, "I _told _him not to look for me."

"That won't make any difference," Trista said dismissively, "Once you've procured a new vehicle, you'll need to go to this address…" Trista offered Serena a neat white business card, "There will be a woman there—dark hair, British. Her name is Luna. She will help you."

Serena warily took it and flipped it over in her hand, reading the address printed in neat cursive. "Help me with what?" When she glanced up at the passenger's seat, Trista was already gone. "Son of a—"

…

"—_Bitch_!" Dean growled, his temper flaring, "You had her with you this whole time and you weren't even going to tell us!"

Dean was driving the impala through South Dakota's rural highway at nearly eighty miles per hour and rising, Sam in the backseat and Bobby occupying shotgun. It was already half past noon.

"She took my peacemaker under the sink," Bobby muttered, as if to himself, ignoring Dean's outburst altogether. He was extremely tense, doubled over with his elbows on his knees, clutching his trucker hat in one hand while he ran his fingers anxiously through his hair with the other.

Sam sat back and read the letter Serena had written to Bobby before she left, staring at the chicken scratch handwriting over and over again. Something about having to leave, and her not wanting to be found, wishing Bobby stayed safe and not bother looking for her, but it didn't quite register with him. He was furious, but he wasn't as keen in voicing his anger like his brother. He tended to let it stew, dark and boiling and pent-up.

"What I want to know is why you'd hide her from us in the first place," Sam grumbled darkly, glaring hard at the back of Bobby's head.

"And let her be a part of your daddy's goddamn _obsession_ with revenge?" Bobby snapped, not liking the tone of Sam's voice, "John may've brainwashed you boys, but he won't corrupt _my _niece!"

Dean suddenly veered off the road and shoved his foot against the breaks. All of them jerked forward with the momentum, but Dean was quick to recover. "That's my family you're talking about, Bobby," He growled dangerously.

"Your _niece_?" Sam furrowed his brows, rubbing the spot where his head had hit the backrest of the driver's seat.

"Her mother was Karen's baby sister," Bobby said, his voice low, his jaw set. "I owe it to Irene to keep her safe, to keep Serena _away_ from the life that got her parents _gutted_."

"And you really think you could do that? _You_? You're a _hunter_," Dean scowled grimly, but he was already driving back into the highway. "How did you even manage to explain all your guns and hoodoo books to her? Eventually she'd either figure it out, or think you're as crazy as she thinks she is. Trying to keep her away from _your _life is like trying to make it rain in a freaking desert."

"I know a mean rain dance," Bobby scoffed patronizingly.

"You're a _hypocrite_," Dean spat, annoyed.

"Guys," Sam said, his eyes widening slightly as they were coming up a Shell gas station, "Pull up here. I think I see the van."

The van was parked by the gas station, but what was most troubling of all was the marked police car next to it, and the two officers speaking to a young man in a polo shirt and khakis nearby.

"_Crap_," Dean muttered morosely, pulling into the gas station.

"Crap is right," Bobby said, trying to sink as low into his seat as possible.

"Hold on," Sam said, moving to get out of the car, "I have an idea."

"Sammy wait—!" Dean hissed, but Sam was already jogging up to the officers.

Bobby hurried out of the car after him, and when he caught up he grabbed Sam practically by the scruff of his jacket, "What d'you think you're doin'?"

"We could report the van stolen," Sam explained, glaring at Bobby. "Tell the cops it was your rebellious teenage niece and she's a runaway, whatever. It'll be easier to find her that way."

"That's not a bad idea," Dean said, joining them. "I mean, it's a small town. Maybe they'd sympathize with you raising a teenage girl, give her a slap on the wrist and call it a day."

"No," Bobby said firmly, "No cops. It'll only make things worse. We find out what happened here first."

"Fine," Sam grimaced, roughly shrugging away Bobby's hand and stomping off toward the commotion.

"We're still pissed at you, y'know," Dean quipped, before stalking after his brother.

"Yeah," Bobby sighed, aggravated, "I know."

…

Before noon, Serena had pulled up by a nearly deserted gas station. There weren't a lot of people around, just a couple of stragglers looking around the convenience store and a young man filling up his black Jeep with gas.

Serena took a deep, shaky breath, pulled the hood of her jacket over her head, and put her aviator sunglasses over her eyes. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror to apply a thin layer of red lipstick, barely recognizing the girl in her reflection.

She hesitated before she opened the glove compartment, grabbing the peacemaker she'd left in there and tucking it behind the waistband of her jeans. Taking another deep breath, Serena got out of the car, walking around to the front of the van and opening the hood with a little difficulty. She could already feel the young man staring at her. Now all she had to do was stand there, look helpless, and wait.

…

They asked around and found out from a couple of witnesses that apparently the young man had been held at gunpoint by a young woman, and she'd stolen his Jeep—_in broad daylight_. It was sloppy and foolish, but it had pulled through without a hitch. Dean would've been impressed if he wasn't so frustrated.

When the officers were done questioning the young man, Sam and Dean decided to question him themselves. Meanwhile Bobby would speak to the police, posing as a smalltime newspaper journalist who just happened upon the scene.

His name was Dennis, and he was more than willing to tell his tale to anyone who would listen, lapping up the attention for whatever it was worth. Sam and Dean barely had to convince him that they were reporters.

"Could you describe her?" Dean asked, disliking the guy instantly.

"She was hot," Dennis explained, "I mean, I couldn't really see her whole face because she had this hoodie on and those big sunglasses chicks love to wear, but she had these nice lips, all red and full and, uh, I wasn't really paying attention to her face most of the time, know what I'm saying?" Dennis grinned lewdly.

Sam inwardly grimaced. "What happened?"

"She looked like she was having trouble with her van, so I thought I could go over and help her out—maybe get her number. The car was a piece of crap, to be honest. But as soon as I got close she just pulls a gun on me, tells me to hand over my keys and all the money in my wallet. It was intense." Dennis boasted, "I swear if she wasn't a girl, I would've punched her."

"Punching someone with a loaded gun in their hand," Dean muttered dryly, "Oh yeah, that's _brilliant_." He almost wished Serena _had _shot him—at least in the leg. Then maybe Dean wouldn't feel so keen to shoot Dennis himself.

Sam rolled his eyes and proceeded to ask, "Which way did she go?"

"I dunno, north? By that time I was already running into the gas station and telling them to call the cops."

Sam furrowed his brows, intrigued by this particular bit of information. "You didn't have your cell phone with you?"

"I left it in my car," Dennis grumbled.

Sam glanced at Dean, and could see his brother was thinking the same thing. "What's your cell number?" Sam asked.

"Whoa, man—I don't swing that way."

Dean fought to suppress his snicker. Sam threw his brother a withering look.

And then Dennis added, "Besides, I don't think your boyfriend here would appreciate you coming on to me in front of him."

Dean's grin vanished completely. "We're _brothers_," He grated, eyes narrowed.

Sam grimaced and said through clenched teeth, "We could track your cell phone through its GPS, we just need the number. We find your cell, we find your car."

"Oh. Cool, you guys detectives?"

"Something like that."

"Alright, thanks!" Dennis said, and then he gave them the digits to his cell phone number.

"Thanks," Sam said, "We'll be going now."

"You guys don't want to hear more?" Dennis offered eagerly.

"No, I think we've had enough of listening to some douchebag boast about how he got robbed by a teenage girl," Dean declined sarcastically.

"Hey, I'm a survivor of a mugging, bro. I'm practically a hero around here." Dennis proclaimed, clearly offended.

"You're a douchebag," Dean stated bluntly, "And I'm not your _bro_. Call me that again and I'll kick your ass."

"You wanna go, huh? Because the Dennis ain't afraid of no jealous groupie."

"Oh my God, you're such a _dick_. I'm gonna enjoy kicking your—"

Sam grabbed Dean by the arm, pulling him back, "Uh, he doesn't mean that. He's just cranky. We've been on the road for awhile and it's getting to him. Sorry." He shot Dean a pointed look and practically had to drag him back to the Impala.

"That's right, you _better_ run!" Dennis yelled when they were already several yards away.

Dean calmed down enough not to have to be dragged away on his own. "Why didn't you just let me punch him, at least once?" He grumbled.

As they reached the Impala, Sam raised his brow at Dean and said to him, "Because you're a hypocrite and we don't have time to deal with your crap, Dean."

Dean glanced at Sam, eyes narrowed. "What are you going on about?"

Sam scoffed, "What, you're telling me you wouldn't try to score a chick's number if you saw her having trouble with her car? And don't even try to tell me you wouldn't try to punch her if she pointed a gun at you, because that has actually _happened_."

"You're comparing me to _the Dennis_? Come on, Sammy, he talks about himself in the third person! He was _begging_ to get his ass beat!"

"That's not the point. Point _being_: you don't pick fights when we have to find a girl who's very possibly in _danger_."

"_Fine_. I'm sorry, all right?" Dean huffed insincerely, "But you can't tell me you don't feel like punching something, too. I mean, Bobby _lied_ to us. Excuse me if I'm still a little hung up on that."

"That doesn't mean you can take it out on the nearest jackass." Sam frowned.

Dean looked genuinely skeptical, "Since when?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Look, I know you're angry. I am, too! But… Bobby has a point."

"_What_?"

"Dean, Bobby could protect her better than we ever could, and maybe he could do it without letting her know about what's really out there. She's better off not knowing us."

Dean stared at Sam as if he'd just grown ten feet taller. "You're _serious_, aren't you?"

Sam sighed, "Dean—"

Dean stubbornly cut him off, "_No._ Okay? No. We're _close_. We're going to find the thing that killed mom and Jess, and she's going to help us. She's practically family, anyway. We can't just abandon her."

"She was _adopted_, Dean. And besides, she's technically Bobby's family, too." Sam reasoned, "I'm not talking about abandoning her, or that we just hand her over to him. We find her, keep her safe until we get back to Bobby's place, and we can figure it out from there."

"You still trust him?"

Sam frowned, but nodded curtly. "Before he told us she was his niece, I really didn't. But he just wanted to protect her, same as us. Hell, I'd probably do the same if I were in his shoes."

Dean sighed, "Fine, whatever_._ Bobby keeps her safe, and we kill whatever nasty son of a bitch is after her. Sounds like a plan."

"We just have to find her," Sam muttered, staring pensively at Bobby as the older man walked over to join them.

"This ain't good," Bobby spoke as he neared them, a deep frown on his face, "The cops are lookin' for that Jeep, we need to move fast if we want to get to her first."

Sam and Dean nodded, and they slipped into the Impala before heading back to the highway.

"The guy couldn't get a good look at her, so that gives us an advantage," Sam offered, "And the guy left his cell in his car, so we can track its GPS."

"Well, that trumps my idea," Bobby said, taking out a sleek black two-way radio from the inside of his flak vest. "I was gonna use this to listen in on their radio channel. When they get any reports on the stolen Jeep, we'd hear about it, and get there before they do."

Sam stared at the device, his eyes widening slightly when he realized what it meant. "Did you just _pick-pocket_ that from a police officer?"

Dean grinned, clearly impressed. "_Nice_."

...

* * *

**Acknowledgments:**

Round two! Glad you managed to stick around, dear reader! :D This chapter is 23 pages long, so I hope it was at least enjoyable. Hope I kept everyone in-character. Some feedback would be nice, so please don't forget to review! Feels like I was a bit hasty, so any grammatical error or confusion is my fault. :I

_Big_ thanks to my 6 kind reviewers: **liz, Usagi Uchiha, Silver-Winged-Saiyajin, lucienna, scorpio9, **and **Princesakarlita411**. I'm so glad you liked the first chapter and took the time to review, thank you!

Havenwyck Hospital is an actual rehab center/mental institution in Michigan, but I've never been there so it's likely to say anything about Havenwyck in this story is purely fictional. To some of you who may be wondering, this story takes place in the year 2006, where the first season of Supernatural began. It's April, and Serena will be turning 18 in June. Serena's personality in this story will be similar to her personality in the English dub: tomboyish, cheeky, fun-loving, temperamental, ditsy. But it's also a mix of her personality in the Stars arc of the SM manga: mature, compassionate, selfless, brave, hopeful, righteous. And of course the angst, but that should go without saying.

**Trivia:** Trista Gray would look like a brown/garnet-eyed Aishwarya Rai. Trista's last name is a reference to Dorian Gray, the classic tale of a young man who could not age. Serena Campbell would look like a younger blue-eyed Shakira. Serena's last name, Campbell, is _supposedly_ her English last name in the English dub (reference: Wikipedia, iMBDb, tvrage). It's an interesting coincidence that Campbell also happens to be the last name of Mary, Sam and Dean's mother, before she married John Winchester. Deirdre would look like Pauley Perrette. Luna would look exactly like Amanda Tapping as Magnus in the TV series _Sanctuary_, British accent and all. But I'm sure you guys have your own interpretation of what they might look like in real life, so why not tell me in a review? It'd be fun. I'd love to hear it. :)


	3. Voodoo Child

**The End's Beginning **

* * *

Sam called 911, which was the only way to activate the GPS effective immediately in case of an emergency. Sam was lying through his teeth, but at this point he was use to it. In this line of work, it was necessary.

"Hello, hi—um, no ma'am, this isn't a big emergency, not exactly, it's just that my, uh…_daughter_… she went to a Simple Plan concert with her friends," Sam spoke into his Blackberry phone, his laptop open on his lap, "See, she has diabetes, and she forgot her insulin shot at home, it's really important that I find her within the next few hours. I was hoping you could track her cell phone?" He paused, listening to the operator on the other line, and then replied, "No, it's okay, I've got my laptop open right now, if you could just point me in the right direction… yes, I understand, but it's important she gets her doses _soon_. Please, she's only 13 and it's her first concert—really? Thank you! The number is 605 – 338 – 5448." Sam typed something briefly into the laptop's keyboard, "Yes, alright, logging into the website now… okay, I've got it: Spearfish, Lawrence County. Thank you so much, ma'am—yes, I'll be more careful next time, thanks again."

Turning off his Blackberry and setting it aside, Sam exhaled, relieved, staring at the address blown up on his computer screen. He looked up to find Bobby staring intently at him, something like gratitude in his expression, though it might've just been relief. Sam couldn't tell.

"Nice job, Sammy," Dean said, but kept his eyes solely on the road, "Now let's get Blondie back." He shoved his foot against the gas pedal, and the Impala's engines roared as it sped up.

"She has a name, _idgit_," Bobby grumbled, strapping on his seatbelt and hanging on to the sides of his seat as if for dear life.

Dean grinned cheekily, if a little sheepishly.

They reached the city of Spearfish quickly, all in thanks to Dean's driving, which Sam and Bobby were sure had broken several traffic laws _and_ world records. The exact location of the cell phone turned out to be a seedy bar, which puzzled Sam and infuriated Bobby. Dean, on the other hand, seemed okay with this.

There were not many cars parked in the lot this particular afternoon, but they spotted the Jeep easily. It was a Wrangler, one of the earlier models with a convertible leather roof. Dean and Bobby went into the bar to find Serena, and Sam was told to stay outside as backup in case she'd try to leave.

Sam waited by the Jeep, leaning against the grill. It was only ten minutes later when Dean and Bobby returned, without Serena, that he realized something was wrong. He furrowed his brows, taking note of the frustrated looks on their faces. "What happened?"

"She's not in there," Bobby told him, obviously displeased.

"We asked around. Bartender never saw a blonde girl walk in or out of the bar." Dean added, frowning. "Are you sure this was the address the operator gave you?"

"Of course I'm sure," Sam said, feeling slightly indignant, "We found the car, didn't we?" He gestured to the Jeep he was leaning against, almost patronizingly.

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother, and countered scathingly, "Well the car is here, but Serena isn't. So what now, _genius_?"

"We look around town, that's what," Bobby cut in. He eyed them both warningly, just _daring _Sam and Dean to start arguing at a time like this. He'd make sure they'd regret it.

"_Great_," Dean grumbled, sarcastic.

"We should start with the Jeep first," Sam suggested grudgingly, "I'll get the Slim Jim and take a look inside."

Sam was about to push himself off the grill of the car when two young men exited the bar. When they spotted Sam, Dean and Bobby loitering around the Jeep, one of them called out, "Hey, get off of our car!"

The three men looked at them, mildly surprised. They looked young, no older than seventeen and certainly not old enough to be in a bar.

"_Your _car?" Dean spoke, raising an eyebrow.

The two teens walked up to them, obviously perturbed. They were both dressed for the cold weather in scarves and thick coats. One of them was tall, but not much taller than Dean, with shaggy carrot-colored hair and an excess of freckles littered across his ashen face. The other boy was shorter, with disheveled black hair and thick round glasses over bight green eyes.

"That's right," The redhead said, "Now get off. Can't you read? Sign says _no loitering_." He gestured behind him, to a 'No Loitering' sign plastered on the doors of the bar.

"And you're _sure_ this is yours?" Sam asked, not quite believing it.

"O-of course! What is this, a book club? We have places to be, now piss off!"

"Actually, we'd like to ask you two a few questions." Sam said.

Dean reached into his jacket's inner pocket and pulled out his fake state police badge, flashing it briefly.

The moment he'd flashed that badge, the two teens bolted in the opposite direction, running for it, but Bobby was already prepared, grabbing the bespectacled brunette by the scruff of his neck as Dean ran off to pursue the redhead.

Bobby dragged the struggling teen over to the Jeep and slammed him against the side of the car, looming over him imposingly. Bobby gripped the lapels of the boy's coat and shook him slightly, "How did you get this car?"

The brunette sputtered fearfully, "I-I don't know what you're—"

"Don't lie to me, boy!" Bobby barked.

"O-okay! I'm sorry! I didn't know you guys were cops, I swear! It was all Rob's idea! I didn't even want to go into that bar!" He confessed piteously. "Please don't take me to jail! My uncle is gonna kick my ass if he found out, _please_!"

"What's your name?" Sam asked, hoping to calm the boy down.

"Henry," the boy relented miserably, "Oh God, please don't take me to jail, don't tell my uncle…"

"No one's taking you to jail, Henry," Sam assured him. He eyed Bobby pointedly, urging the older man to loosen his vice grip on the boy. Bobby reluctantly complied, releasing Henry. Satisfied, Sam went on to say, "We just need you to answer a few questions about the Jeep, alright?"

Henry nodded vigorously, "You mean _this_ Jeep? You can have it!"

"That's not what I meant," Sam said, shaking his head briefly, "This Jeep was stolen when you found it. Where did you get it?"

"Did you steal it?" Bobby demanded, eyes narrowed.

"No!" Henry denied frantically, "No way! I didn't! There was a…a girl! She was about our age, I think. Couldn't really tell, she had a hoodie and sunglasses on. But_ she_ was the one who gave it to us! I didn't even want it, but Rob—he took the keys. It was all his idea, I swear."

"You were just along for the ride, huh, kid?" Bobby spat accusingly.

"No—I mean, well, _yeah_. Rob's my best friend, what was I suppose to do?" Henry frowned imploringly.

"How about just say _no _to peer pressure?" Dean offered, purely sarcastic, as he stiffly walked towards them. Dean was clearly still catching his breath, but he'd successfully returned with the redhead, Rob, bound in handcuffs.

"These cuffs are on too tight," Rob complained, grimacing as they approached them.

"That's for making me run," Dean replied scathingly, shoving Rob forward.

Rob stumbled, and Bobby grabbed him to make him join Henry against the Jeep. "Talk," Bobby commanded. "The girl that gave you the car, where'd she go? Did she tell you anything?"

"She made us drop her off at the bus transit," Henry replied.

"Which one?" Bobby demanded.

"Henry!" Rob complained, "Don't be a _snitch_!"

"You don't tell us what we want to know, and you're looking at time in Juvie," Dean warned—lying through his teeth, of course. "Underage drinking, skipping school, _and _grand theft auto? Those are serious offenses, I should know. How about we add resisting arrest to that _growing _list?"

"What do you want?" Rob grumbled.

"Tell us where the girl went, and we'll let you both go right now like this never happened," Dean offered.

Rob scoffed. "You're lying."

"Either way, you're screwed," Dean quipped. At this point he didn't really care anymore; they'd get the information out of him, one way or another. He was sort of hoping they'd have to resort to a bit of brute force. He was still annoyed that he'd had to chase Rob nearly half a mile before he'd finally caught him.

"You swear?" Henry spoke up, wary, "If we tell you about her, you swear you'll let us go?"

"Yes," Sam reassured, earnestly.

Henry swallowed the lump in his throat, adjusted his glasses, and ignored Rob's protests as he said, "Prairie Hills Transit."

…

She needed a diversion, so she'd ditched the Jeep in Spearfish, handing it to a couple of red-blooded teenage boys who were all too eager at the prospect of joyriding, no questions asked. That would stall the police, and perhaps Bobby, for awhile. She'd given the teenagers more than half of the money she'd stolen from the Jeep's owner, and spent the remaining cash on a bus ticket to Deadwood. By the time she'd reached her destination, night had fallen, enveloping everything in dank shadows and the whimsical glow of colorful city lights.

Deadwood was a small historic city located in the Black Hills of South Dakota. It was named after the dead trees that had fringed the nearby gulch, had a meager population of approximately 1,400 residents, and was famous for its history of cowboys, casinos, prostitution and illegal drug trades of the 19th century. Nowadays it was a quaint little tourist trap with an old Western feel to it, several casinos and a number of other, less morally ambiguous recreations, such as hiking, mountain biking, horse riding and swimming in man-made lakes in the summer. Given a certain perspective, it wasn't a terrible place to live.

It was in this little city that Serena had found herself in, according to the address Trista had given her. It was 27 Deadwood Street, which led to a hotel called Iron Horse Inn, just a block from Main Street. Like most of the commodities in Deadwood, it sported a Victorian Western theme.

The inn was modern under the guise of antique furniture and the décor of a bygone era. Most of the rooms were unoccupied. The time of year did not bring a lot of tourist due to the cold weather, but the hardcore gamblers did not need to worry about that in Iron Horse Inn, which was adjoined to a poker room within.

Serena shuffled into the lobby, her head down and her hands in her jacket pockets, heading straight to the reception area where customers checked in.

The receptionist, a woman, gave Serena a wide smile that she halfheartedly returned. She briefly glanced at the receptionist's nametag, which read Stacy. She was a pretty woman in her early twenties of average height, but taller than Serena, with brown eyes and auburn hair done up in a bun that reminded Serena of cinnamon rolls.

"Welcome to Iron Horse Inn," Stacy chirped genially, "Miss…?"

"Uh. Claire," Serena blurted, saying the first name that came to mind that seemed the farthest in similarities to her real name.

Stacy stared at her expectantly, "Claire…?"

It occurred to Serena that Stacy expected her to give a last name. Serena grinned sheepishly, though it was forced, "Claire… _Singer_."

"Have you come to check-in or do you have a suite reserved?"

"Actually, I came to ask about someone staying here… her name is Luna."

Stacy frowned. "I don't think I've heard of her before. It's a slow day, I'm sure I would've noticed someone with such a unique name. Why do you ask?"

"Um. She's a friend of mine, she gave me a call to stop by this town and see her." Serena pursed her lips, brows furrowed. "Are you sure? Maybe you've seen her, she has dark hair and, um, a British accent." It occurred to Serena then that Trista had given an abysmally poor description of this Luna woman she was supposed to find.

Stacy's brows rose, in what Serena hoped was recognition. "The only woman I can think of is Helen Winston. She's an English tourist that just checked in a couple of days ago. Oh, I remember now, she told me she was expecting company today before she left. You must be her."

Close enough. Serena decided to go with it. "Yeah, yes! I am," She agreed, a little too quickly, but Stacy did not seem to notice, "Luna is her nickname, it's what we call her back home. In England."

"You're from England, too? That's fascinating," Stacy smiled excitedly. "We don't get much English tourists here, but you have a very smooth accent, I barely noticed."

"Uh, yeah—no, I moved to America a few years ago, so I learned the accent pretty quickly. To fit in." Serena chuckled awkwardly, mentally kicking herself for even mentioning England at all.

"That's a shame. English accents sound so cool to me."

"That's funny, because in England everyone thinks American accents are cool."

Stacy grinned, delighted, "Get out, seriously?"

"Yup," Serena lied, forcing a cheerful smile. She had absolutely no idea if it were true or not. She was a terrible liar, and it didn't help that she was feeling bad about doing it, but this was necessary, and Stacy was gullible. "Um, you said she left? Where'd she go?"

"To the gulch—sightseeing, I guess. Don't know why, in this weather. Most tourists come here for the casinos." Stacy shrugged. "She said she'd be back in an hour, but that was forty-five minutes ago. If you like, you can wait here or visit our buffet."

"Thanks," Serena said dismissively, hurrying over to sit down. It was early in the evening and she was hungry, but she didn't have the money to afford it. She slumped against an armchair and sighed, covering her ears to ignore the unpleasant growl of her stomach.

Serena took a deep breath, trying to focus on sorting through the mess in her head. She wasn't even sure why she was here. She barely trusted Trista in the first place, but she had so many questions, she was confused and frightened and on edge. But more than anything, Serena was desperate—desperate for answers, for anything that could make sense of this living nightmare.

She kept trying to convince herself she was going mad, it was much easier to accept_ that,_ than what she knew now to be true. But it was useless, she knew she wasn't crazy. She'd known all along, deep down. Normal had no place in her life, not anymore. Perhaps it never had.

The things that were happening to her were unnatural. They were _supernatural_. There was no point in ignoring what had been right in front of her this whole time, just because it was too horrifying and improbable to understand.

Her memories were of wicked, lurid things skulking around the corners of her mind, beyond the peripherals and just out of her grasp. She still couldn't completely remember the night her parents had died, only brief flashes of pain, and her head still stung every time she tried, but at least now she _understood_. She knew. This kind of evil was not manmade, it was made of something older and darker and stronger. And for whatever reason, it was after her.

Trista was a part of this somehow, and she knew more than she was letting on. A part of Serena wanted to find out what it was. Another part of her felt that if she did, she wouldn't like the truth. She already didn't like the little she knew now.

"Serena?"

Serena nearly jumped out of her seat, her wide-eyed gaze snapping up to look at the woman standing over her. She had jet-black hair curled around her shoulders, high cheekbones, a heart-shaped face, and a refined look about her. Her face was as smooth as Serena's, but the look in her eyes was too wise to belong to a young woman. Serena could've guessed that she was in her mid-thirties, at the very least.

"How did you know my—" Serena stopped, realization hitting her. "You must be Luna."

Luna smiled slightly, and replied in a smooth, accented voice, "Yes. Trista told me I should be expecting you. This is all quite unexpected."

Serena scoffed softly. "You're telling me," she mumbled, and straightened in her seat to eye Luna with a raised brow. "Do you usually check into hotels with an alias, or is Helen Winston your real name?"

"It comes with the job," Luna chuckled. "My real name is Luna. Just Luna. I'm hurt you don't remember, but then again, you never were very bright with such things."

Serena's brows drew together in confusion, slightly insulted, but more so intrigued. She felt a spark of familiarity when she stared at Luna, but it was like déjà vu, unreal and uncertain. "Have we… met before?"

Luna simply nodded. "Yes, many times."

"No, I don't think I know you." Serena frowned.

"But I know _you_. More than you know yourself, at the moment." Luna smiled, a knowing gleam in her eyes.

Now Serena was sure Luna was an associate of Trista's. She had the same knowing look, as if she knew something Serena didn't. It was beginning to irritate her. "What are you talking about?"

"Perhaps we should talk about this more privately, hmm?" Luna gave her an encouraging smile and gestured Serena to follow her. "My car is outside."

Serena eyed the older woman warily. "Why not here? You've got a room here, don't you?"

"I really only came here to get you. I was in the middle of something important when Trista informed me you were coming."

"Well, I'm _sorry_ to intrude," Serena said, biting sarcasm in her voice. "But my parents are _dead _and I was told my life was in danger, so I think my priorities trump yours, lady."

Luna's smile vanished, and something flashed in her eyes that looked like hurt.

Serena ignored it. "Where's Trista?" She demanded, almost desperately, "What's going on? Why is this _happening _to me? Who are you people and what do you want from me?"

Luna gave Serena a calm, measured look, "Serena, have you ever heard the expression: _curiosity killed the cat_?"

Serena frowned, puzzled. "What?"

"Come with me, and I will tell you all you need to know."

Serena didn't feel like she had an option at this point. If this woman was anything like Trista, then the only way to get what she wanted was to be patient and compliant. Besides, it was too crowded to pull out the peacemaker hidden under her jacket; she didn't want to draw attention to herself. To be perfectly honest, she preferred it if it would not have to resort to threats, and was willing to be as civil as possible. In spite of her temper, she despised unnecessary hostility.

Serena nodded briefly, "_Fine_."

They walked out of the inn and into the street, and Luna led her to a sleek black corvette parked by the sidewalk. Serena stared at it, as if she couldn't comprehend what she was looking at.

Luna opened the door to the driver's seat, but paused as she noticed Serena's hesitation. "Is there a problem?"

"No… it's just that—you can't, well… _teleport_, or anything?"

"That particular talent is reserved for Trista, I'm afraid," Luna grinned, mildly amused.

"So you're not like her… whatever she is. What _is_ she?"

"One question at a time," Luna quipped, and slipped into the driver's seat of the car before Serena could retort.

Serena sighed irritably and slipped into the passenger's seat.

Luna drove out of town. Serena sat uncomfortably in the front passenger's seat and stared at the passing scenery beyond the window. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see…"

Serena turned to shoot Luna pointed look. "Are you people allergic to straight answers or something?"

Luna just laughed lightly.

Serena couldn't help it, she sulked, folding her arms together over her chest. Not for the first time, she wondered why she was relying on people like Trista and Luna. It should be unusual, how easily she seemed to accept the bizarreness of her situation, but a part of her felt unreasonably comfortable with these strangers. She couldn't explain it, and it unnerved her, but she trusted her instincts. She had to. What else could she do? She had no idea, she was practically grasping at straws at this point.

They stopped by the gulch, and Luna reached for the duffel bag she kept in the backseat before quickly stepping out of the car.

"Hey!" Serena called indignantly, and then hurriedly exited the car after her. "What are you doing _now_?"

"My job, dear," Luna supplied plainly, walking towards a forest path by the gulch.

Serena huffed, hurrying after her. She fell in step with Luna, fuming. "Trista told me I was in danger, that my uncle was going to _die_ if I didn't leave him and come see you. _I robbed a man at gunpoint_. She told me you could help, but you're just being as vague as she was!" She grabbed Luna's arm, forcing her to stop and face her, "If you know _anything _about my parents' murders, tell me now. If not, fine, at least then I can stop wasting my time in this creepy forest you've led us into."

"I am sorry about your family, Serena." Luna stared down at her, and her expression was one of pity. "We had hoped that you'd finally found a normal life, like you'd always wanted. But it wasn't meant to last. We were fools to hope so, and I blame myself for leaving you alone at your most vulnerable." She raised her hand and placed it on Serena's shoulder, a genuinely sympathetic gesture. There was guilt in her eyes, so much of it, it was almost heartbreaking.

Serena was confused, and it frustrated her. It was as if Luna was talking in riddles. Her entire situation felt like a foreboding maze, and she was sick of it. Serena shrugged her hand off, stepping back. "What are you talking about?" She was tired of asking that question and never getting a straight answer.

Luna sighed, and then she chuckled, ruefully. "You lost your memories, Serena. It had happened a little over a year ago. Before that, I knew you, we were friends. _Partners_. I had hoped we still are."

Serena's brows furrowed. "What?"

"It's complicated, believe me. I won't bore you with the details, but in the past, you were a hunter—and not just any kind, either. Hunting was your calling. It was, and still is, your destiny."

Serena shook her head, as if to shake off the absurd idea Luna was trying to instill in her mind. "What does that even _mean_? Are you telling me that I hunt little woodland creatures for kicks or something? Is this some kind of joke?"

"It's not a joke," Luna said, her voice grave, "We don't hunt ordinary creatures, Serena. Far from it. The nightmares, the myths, the things that go bump in the night—they're real. And you and I, we are the ones who _bump back_."

At this point, Serena was convinced that Luna was loony. "Yeah, _right_."

Frustrated, Luna grabbed her by her shoulders. "_Think_, Serena. You know that I speak the truth. You need to remember, to be ready for what's to come. For a year, you felt out of place. You tried so hard to play the part of the normal teenage girl, but you know that isn't who you are. Why do you think you'd managed to break out of that mental institution and avoid the police so well? Didn't you wonder how you managed to fight off Deirdre, who'd suddenly possessed_ twice_ the strength of a normal human? Your _mind _may have forgotten, but your instincts certainly haven't. This isn't the first time you'd buried your memories, either. If you let me help you, you can gain your memories back, just like before."

Alarmed, Serena shoved her off. "H-how do you know about that?" She'd never told _anybody_ about Deirdre.

"Trista kept an eye on you after your parents were killed, and she kept in touch with me in turn. It was to protect you, but your safety was compromised. So, naturally, you ran. But neither of us expected you to go to Bobby Singer…"

"You've been _watching _me?"

"We had hoped to avoid confrontation, but things have changed. Something is coming, and it has started with you. Your parents' deaths were just the catalyst."

"_Don't _talk about them like that! Don't talk about _me_ like—as if I'm some kind of pawn!" Serena snapped, livid. "What's going on? You keep saying that word, _we_. Who are you people, w_hat do you want from me_?"

"We—_I _am your friend."

Serena glared. "I don't believe you."

Luna glared right back, frustrated with Serena's stubborn defiance and unnecessary distrust. "Well, then perhaps I should_ show_ you," She grated, unhooking the duffle bag slung over her shoulder and laying it on the ground before kneeling over it, rifling through its contents. To Serena's shock, Luna pulled out a sawed-off shotgun, and abruptly tossed it at her.

Serena surprised herself by deftly catching it with one hand, her fingers instinctively closing around the pump-action barrel of the shotgun. It was cold and coarse in her fist, but what unsettled her most of all was that it felt _familiar_.

"I hope you still know how to use that thing."

Brows drawn together, she stared at the weapon in her hand for a moment, and then pointedly looked over at Luna. "What am I suppose to do with this?" She asked, uneasy.

"It's for protection," Luna supplied shortly.

Something like trepidation stirred in Serena's chest, heavy and foreboding. "Protection?" She repeated questioningly, even though a large part of her was convinced she didn't want to know, "From _what_?

Serena saw the ominous flash of shock and apprehension on Luna's face, pale eyes widening and mouth open, about to cry out. Her eyes were not on her, but on something behind her.

Serena knew something was wrong before Luna even exclaimed, "Watch out!"

But it was too late; she couldn't have reacted fast enough even if she'd known of the danger. She felt the numbing rush of pain hit her as she was shoved forward, hitting the dirt floor with a crash, felt the blood gush out of the fresh, shallow gash across her shoulder blade and seeping into her clothes. Her hand kept a firm grip on the shotgun, as if for dear life. Fear and pain shook Serena to her very core, she could hardly breath.

She heard the earsplitting roar and the heavy thump of multiple footsteps. Disoriented, Serena forced her gaze up in time to see a huge wolf-like beast charging at Luna. It was a hulking mass of black fur, standing on all four of its enormous paws. It was like shadow and tar and solid darkness, and its eyes smoldered a florescent green, yellowing razor-sharp teeth bared against black lips in a snarl.

There was a thunderous explosion of sound when Luna raised her own shotgun and pulled the trigger, and the creature was blown back, bits of blood and flesh trailing after it. Its back hit a tree, splintering wood, and it whimpered and howled the way a dog might've done when injured, but it did not collapse.

Serena tried to push herself off the ground, but her body hurt everywhere, she couldn't even tell where the source of the pain started. She was breathing hard, trying to regain the wind that had been knocked out of her, staggering to her hands and knees.

She blinked hard at the wounded animal—no, _monster_. It paid no attention to her, charging at Luna once it collected itself.

Luna deftly cocked her shotgun and shot at it again, and the spray of bullets hit the beast in the side. It howled in pain a second time, almost deafeningly, and finally turned on its tail and fled into the darkness of the woods.

With the monster gone, Luna quickly ran over to Serena's aid, picking her up by her arms. Serena pushed her away and tried to get up on her own, but couldn't bring her legs to stand without trembling.

"For God's sake, you're _bleeding_! Let me help you!" Luna growled, frustrated. She took Serena's arm and slung it over her shoulders, wrapping her free arm around Serena's waist to hoist her up on her feet.

"Get away from me!" Serena shoved her, her voice rising with every syllable. "What the hell was that thing?" She was shaken, clearly. She'd never seen anything like the beast that had attacked her, and it was Luna who had led her into these very woods. Luna had _known_ it was dangerous, that explained why she'd brought weapons, but she'd led her here anyway. Serena's already fragile trust in the older woman shattered to pieces.

"You saw it?" Luna's eyes widened slightly, as if in surprise.

"Of course I saw it! I—" Serena sputtered, wincing, the prickling pain in her back growing steadily harder to ignore, "_Ugh_." Her knees nearly buckled, but she forced herself to remain standing, leaning against a nearby tree.

Luna was quickly at her side, and Serena didn't reject her this time. Reluctantly, she decided she needed the help.

"Did you see where it went?" Luna persisted.

"Screw you!" Serena snapped, furious. "I'm _bleeding_ here! I—God, this _stings_." It didn't hurt nearly as bad as she'd thought it would, the beast had only grazed her, but the pain still jarred her senses and shook her composure. She was thoroughly shell-shocked, and it was making her panic.

"Well, some things really _don't_ change," Luna muttered dryly, not appreciating Serena raising her voice at her. "You're still a crybaby."

"_You shut your mouth_," Serena growled, flushing angrily. She despised how Luna spoke to her as if she _knew _her.

"Serena… that thing is going to kill more people if you don't tell me where it had gone. I can't leave this forest until it's dead, and you're the only one who can see that thing."

"What the hell does that even—_what_—" Serena sucked in a deep breath, fighting to regain her composure. She refused to admit it out loud, but Luna was right. Serena couldn't ignore the risk of that beast killing an innocent camper or hiker, no matter how shaken she was. "What in the hell _was_ that thing?"

"It was a Hellhound." Luna smiled ironically.

…

Prairie Hills Transit's bus station was not nearly as crowded as they'd expected, which came as a relief to the three hunters. They impersonated state police officers, and asked the ticket agents of the whereabouts of Serena Campbell, claiming she was a teenage runaway.

They'd split up to cover more ground, interrogating each ticket agent simultaneously. It made the process go a little quicker, and right now every second counted. For all they knew, Serena was miles and miles out of the state by now. They couldn't afford to waste time.

An hour later, they gathered together by the Impala, sharing what they'd learned from the ticket agents.

"I've got nothing on my end," Dean said, exasperated.

"Neither do I," Bobby admitted, exhaling in frustration.

"This isn't good," Sam spoke up, "Only _one _ticket agent was any help. Problem is, he saw _two_ young girls fitting Serena's description, both of them heading in completely different directions. It could be either one of them."

"Where were they headin'?"

"One headed over to Deadwood, the other was heading out of state, towards Bismarck, North Dakota."

"How many short teenage girls in hoodies and shades does this state have, anyway?" Dean grumbled. "Our best bet is Bismarck. If she's smart, she'd probably want to get out of the state, she's technically wanted here."

"She _is_ smart," Bobby guaranteed, frowning grimly, "But to be safe, we're going to have to split up."

"_What_?" Sam and Dean blurted simultaneously, staring at Bobby in blatant disbelief.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked.

"What about a ride?" Dean added, dubious.

"You let me worry about that, boys," Bobby assured them, his lips pursed into a tight grimace. "I don't like the idea any more than you do, but I'm not taking any chances. She could be in either one of those places." Bobby was determined to find Serena as soon as possible, and if it meant splitting up, then so be it. "I'll take Bismarck."

"That leaves Deadwood to us, then," Sam assumed, correctly.

"Fair enough," Dean shrugged. He nudged Sam on the shoulder, "C'mon, Sammy, let's go."

Sam didn't move. He eyed Bobby almost worriedly, "You might need a weapon. Serena's still in danger, it's good to be prepared."

Bobby gave him a brief look, his expression unreadable. And then he just snorted, clearly amused, a wry smile on his face. "Boy, do you know who you're _talkin' _to?" He opened his flak vest and revealed the heavy pistol tucked against the waistband of his jeans. "Already got it covered."

Sam raised his brows. "Oh."

Dean smirked, not surprised in the least.

…

"Are you sure you don't want me to patch you up?"

Serena shook her head, gruffly dismissing Luna's concern as they trudged deeper into the woods, following the Hellhound's tracks. "_You're _the one who wanted to find the thing so badly," She grumbled, absently rubbing her sore shoulder. It didn't hurt anymore, not really.

She'd never admit it, not even to herself, but Luna was right—she _had_ been overreacting. But Serena thought she had every right to freak out the way she had. After all, she'd been attacked by a four-hundred pound wolf straight out of hell, _literally_. She was still bothered about that little tidbit of information.

"So, how'd this… uh, _Hellhound_ end up in a town like Deadwood?" Serena asked, keeping her volume below a whisper, mindful of the potential danger around them. Every unusual noise and dark, unknown space between the trees sent her nerves into a tizzy, and her hands instinctively tightened around the sawed-off shotgun in her possession.

"Hellhounds don't usually skulk the areas unless they are summoned," Luna explained.

"Got it…" Serena said, not getting it at all. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

Luna rolled her eyes. "Honestly, it's like you're fourteen and I'm teaching you all over again."

"Look, lady, you need to stop speaking in these stinking riddles, because it's creeping me out," Serena retorted, huffing. "I don't know you; I've never even met you before today, and the only thing you've taught me is _never trust a mysterious Englishwoman when she tells you to get in her car_!"

"Keep your voice down!" Luna hissed loudly.

Serena, suddenly remembering the situation they were in, grudgingly obeyed.

"Hellhounds are usually summoned to drag a victim of a Crossroads Deal to Hell," Luna quietly explained and, upon seeing Serena's blank expression, added impatiently, "A Crossroad Deal is when a human makes a deal with a demon, in exchange for their soul. They may also be summoned by witches, but this is dangerous, Hellhounds can only be properly controlled by demons. If a witch were to summon a Hellhound, say to get rid of an enemy, the Hellhound will kill its intended victim, but there's no telling what it'll do afterwards. It could kill the witch who summoned it, or anyone it could get its hands on, really. They're extremely volatile creatures."

Serena said nothing, trying her best to absorb this information and not just assume Luna was a delusional crackpot—which, quite frankly, was beginning to be a lot easier to believe. But Serena had seen the Hellhound herself, _knew_ that the beast was nothing nature could explain. It was a monster, a thing from the bowels of Hell itself.

She'd been superstitious growing up. As a kid she'd believed in Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy, all those happy little fairy tales that kids usually grew up with. But she'd also believed in the darker fallacies, the ones of vampires and ghosts and the Boogie Man. She watched _way_ too much TV as a kid, but it wasn't just that. Something deep inside her had always known, always feared the dark because she knew the potential evil lurking there. She just never thought she'd ever have to deal with it like this, up-close and personal. Her life had turned upside down and inside out, she was beginning to think she'd never just go back to normal, even if she tried. For the rest of her life, she was going to live with knowing that the things out of people's nightmares _did _exist, and she'd be constantly looking over her shoulder in fear of what lurked in the darkness.

Well, at least she knew she wasn't crazy.

"So…" Serena started uncertainly, "You think that a witch summoned that thing here?"

"Yes," Luna confirmed, only slightly surprised at Serena's sudden interest. "Otherwise, it would've returned to Hell by now the moment it'd found its intended victim. But it has killed three people already."

"What?" Serena's eyes widened, "Shouldn't the police be involved in this? I mean, they had to have noticed, right?"

"They're keeping a low profile on the investigation, ruling it as wild animal attacks."

"In _Deadwood_?" Serena spoke, feeling increasingly skeptical.

Luna smirked mirthlessly, "Better that, than a murdering demon-hound prowling the streets at night. People try to make sense of what they don't understand, with what they already know. You of all people should know that."

Serena couldn't help but flush, embarrassed and just a little annoyed with Luna's implication. "Whatever," she muttered, looking away. "So what about the, um… _witch_?"

"She was among the victims. Essentially, this was all just a summoning gone horribly wrong. She'd summoned the Hellhound to seek revenge on the death of her husband. It was an accident, but apparently she didn't think so. Unfortunately, she was wrong. There _was _no murderer, and therefore the Hellhound had no specific target. Things got very ugly from there." Luna sighed. "Damn witches, they don't have any idea just how _literally_ they're playing with fire."

"Great. Just great." Serena glanced up at the night sky in silent supplication, exasperated, "Why is this happening to me?"

"Because this is what you do," Luna answered, flippantly.

Serena twisted her gaze towards Luna, eyes narrowing, "I'm tired of hearing that from you."

"Would you rather I lie to you?" Luna snapped, eyes narrowing as well, "If you just let me help you, I can make you remember."

"What if I don't _want _to remember?" Serena shot back, instantly regretting it. She looked away, peering into the dark abyss of the woods, anywhere but the shock on Luna's face.

"Then you know, don't you?" Luna spoke, after a long pause. "You've always known, always felt like you were forgetting something important, like a part of your life was wiped clean from your mind, but you couldn't be sure."

Serena refused to look at her. How did Luna_ know_? She was right, so right it was almost terrifying, but Serena refused to listen.

As if reading her mind, Luna explained, "This isn't the first time you've pushed away your memories, your other life. I can help you, Serena. And once you remember, we can take down that Hellhound together… like old times." She offered Serena a tentative smile, but Serena still refused to look at her. Luna's smile faltered. "You had the choice of leaving, you know. I wouldn't have stopped you. You could've left me here to deal with the Hellhound alone, you could've gone to a hospital or left Deadwood altogether, but you didn't. You remained by my side, because you _know_ me, deep down—you care for my safety, and the safety of others. Even without your memories, you are still so selfless."

Serena gave no response, her lips pursed in concentration and her brows furled. She was thinking seriously, and Luna felt a hint of hope swell in her chest. Maybe she was finally getting through to her?

"Why can't you see it?" Serena asked, suddenly.

"What?" Luna sputtered, her gaze briefly meeting Serena's before she pointedly looked away.

"Back there, when it attacked us, you said that I'm the only one who could see the Hellhound. Why?"

"Ah," Luna spoke, awkwardly, "Oh, yes, well—not many people are actually capable of _seeing_ a Hellhound; they're essentially invisible to humans, except for their chosen victim."

"I'm its next _victim_?" Serena exclaimed, nearly dropping the shotgun in her hands.

"No! Goodness, no." Luna pursed her lips, and then proceeded to explain, "However... some humans are actually able to see them. This is very rare." There was something in Luna's demeanor that told Serena she was hiding something, but Serena decided she didn't care anymore. She was use to the secrets by now, and she was beginning to think that the less she knew, the better.

"Lucky me," Serena grumbled, gripping the barrel of her shotgun.

"Actually, this _is _quite fortunate," Luna smiled dryly, "We'd be able to pinpoint the Hellhound's exact location once we do face it, instead of just shooting blindly and hoping we hit it."

Serena gave Luna a withering look.

…

Deadwood was a small, mostly rural city surrounded by hills and woodland. For Sam and Dean, it wasn't hard to find leads; once they flashed their fake marshal badges around, the locals weren't disinclined to keep information on new faces to themselves, especially one as remarkable as Serena's. It wasn't often they received tourists as young as her without parental supervision.

From what they'd learned, she'd last been walking into Iron Horse Inn. And that was where they were now, a little over twenty minutes after Luna and Serena left the hotel in Luna's corvette. Dean was flippantly flirting with the receptionist, Stacy, as Sam stood a little further away observing the lobby for anything suspicious.

Sam was so engrossed in his scrutinizing that he didn't notice Dean walk up to him until he spoke.

"Well, Stacy over there said she did meet a young woman here—petite, blue-eyed, blonde hair falling out of her hoodie, looked kind of nervous." Dean grinned wryly, "Said her name was Claire _Singer_." He shook his head, as if in disappointment, "She's got to do better than that to throw us off."

"We should contact Bobby," Sam spoke, relieved. "Did she say where Serena went? Is she here?" Sam's eyes searched the room once more, as if expecting Serena to conveniently pop up in the lobby.

"No time for that," Dean said, his voice unusually grave, "Stacy said she followed an old friend, a woman named Helen Winston who'd been staying at this hotel for a few days now. They were last seen in Helen's car, a corvette, driving off towards the woods. Damn it, we _just_ missed her."

Sam furrowed his brows. This made no sense. Why did Serena come here, of all places? If she was running away, why not leave South Dakota entirely? Instead, she came here, as if on _purpose_, and met with a woman that was supposedly an old friend—something Sam highly doubted. He didn't think Serena would've gone to Bobby if she had had anybody else. And why leave in the middle of the night, only to head towards a wooded area of Deadwood?

Sam felt dread burn in the pit of his gut. At this point, he could only expect the worst.

…

They were very near the river now, Serena could hear the waters sloshing and roaring, seemingly louder in the dead of night, and the smell of fresh water mingling with the scent of pine in the air.

Somewhere in the dark, the Hellhound growled.

"Did you hear that?"

Serena felt as if her heart had dropped to meet her stomach. She could hardly see it, but it was there, crouching low between two thin pine trees in the distance, fangs glinting against the dim moonlight and canine eyes smoldering like a pair of florescent green lights against the pitch black shadow of its thick fur. It was a horrendous, powerful thing. And Serena, for one fleeting instant of terror, wondered why such a monstrosity was allowed to exist.

"There," She gestured, raising her shotgun, prepared to shoot.

"No," Luna warned quickly, "It won't do any good from this distance; we'll have to wait until it comes closer."

"Are you _crazy_?"

"I'll protect you," Luna promised, and as their eyes met, Serena saw such unwavering conviction in the older woman's face that it was almost startling.

Not trusting her own voice, Serena just nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She looked towards the Hellhound, and nearly dropped her shotgun when she realized it wasn't where she'd seen it last.

"L-Luna," She stammered, grabbing the other woman's sleeve and tugging urgently.

"What? What's happened? Has it moved?"

"It's… gone."

"What do you mean _gone_?"

"I mean it's not there anymore! It just disappeared!" Serena snapped, feeling the first tinges of panic tightening in her chest. Her eyes frantically searched the dark, seemingly empty woods.

And then Serena heard the twig snap underneath the heavy weight of the Hellhounds paw, and she whipped towards the sound, her rifle going off with a thunderous boom.

There was a roar of pain as the bullets grazed its shoulder, but the Hellhound quickly brought its claw down and managed to hit the barrel of the shotgun. The weapon went flying off to the side, useless. Serena let out a muffled cry, her hands stinging from the sudden force of the rifle being unceremoniously ripped from her hands.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline pumping rapidly through her veins, or maybe it was sheer survival instinct, but when Serena saw the Hellhound's enormous claws come at her a second time, she jumped back with the grace and reflex of a boxer. But it wasn't quick enough, and she paid the price for it, her eyes watering as she felt her chest and neck burn and bleed. Serena stumbled back, clutching the shallow gashes over her clavicle and throat, feeling the blood pour into her hands.

Serena's back hit the hard dirt floor and for one terrifying instant she was sure she was going to die. The gashes on her back stung when she hit the ground, the burning pain returning. Her head was swimming and she felt nauseous, her breathing becoming shallow and curt.

There was a loud, earth-shattering roar, and with a start Serena realized that the noise had not come from the Hellhound. And she was still alive.

Desperately, Serena ignored the pain and stiffly rolled over onto her side, looking up in time to see the startling sight of a panther—except it wasn't, it couldn't be. It was too huge, nearly as big as a water buffalo, every inch of its body bristling with sinewy muscle underneath sleek black fur. And it was currently biting and clawing furiously at the Hellhound in a fierce battle of wild brute strength.

The two gargantuan beasts clawed and bit and slashed at each other with such relentless brutality, rolling against the dirt as they struggled to pin each other down. Serena couldn't look away. She could barely register what was happening. The Hellhound snarled and yelped like a rabid wolf, whereas the giant panther roared and screeched like every wildcat combined.

The beasts struggled and fought against each other until they were practically at the edge of the river. Without warning, they stumbled into the dark waters, disappearing underneath the waves.

Only then did Serena manage to look away, snapping back to the gravity of the situation. She winced, clutching her bleeding neck. The blood seeped through the shallow gashes slowly, but surely. She felt her hands trembling against her throat, her pulse quicken, and sincerely hoped she wasn't going into shock.

Serena felt cold and numb, but too tired to rub her arms for warmth.

"L-Luna?" She called out, and her voice sounded small and hurt. But it even hurt to speak, so she set her jaw and pursed her lips, struggling to suppress the pained wince bubbling up her throat.

Where was Luna? Had she ran away? Was she hurt? Serena felt herself worrying over the older woman more than she'd like to admit. It didn't matter if Luna had fled and left her behind, she realized. Because at least in that theory, Luna was safe. Whereas Serena…

Serena was safe, too, she supposed—thanks to the hulking panther, or whatever it was. She just needed to get out of here, before she froze to death. It seemed Deadwood was a magnet for huge supernatural beasts, but Serena didn't want to stay and find out if that was true.

Serena struggled to sit up, but realized that the exhaustion reached into the very marrow of her bones. She nervously glanced at the river, waiting for something to happen, expecting the beasts to burst out of the rushing waters and continue their battle back on dry land. But there was nothing.

It was quiet—not pure silence, because Serena could still hear the river and the rustling of trees against the whistling breeze. Still, it was unsettling, especially after the chaos only a terrifying moment before.

She was going to die here, in this godforsaken town in its godforsaken woods. She was going to bleed out slowly, or freeze to death—whichever came first.

This was all Trista's fault. She never should've listened to her. She never should've listened to Luna.

Serena felt her throat clench, tears welling up in her eyes, out of both pain and despair. She tugged her lip between her teeth, biting down hard, desperate to stifle the sobs threatening to burst out of her throat.

No, it was all _her _fault. It had been her choice to listen, to take a chance, to trust them. After everything she'd been through, she was still a naïve, gullible mess. What would happen to her Uncle Bobby? What would he think if he found her pale, bloody corpse here?

Serena shut her eyes, and prayed.

She prayed for her Uncle Bobby's safety, that he might never see her like this. She prayed for her parents, that wherever they were now, she hoped it was a happy place and she was so, _so _sorry and she loved them both so much, she missed them, and she was sorry that she never showed it enough.

Why was she doing this to herself, dredging up these memories? Her family was dead. She'd join them soon enough.

"_Serena."_

Serena flinched and, realizing that the voice belonged to Luna, struggled to open her eyes. _She came back for me?_ Serena thought, feeling both relief and disbelief overwhelm her.

She felt something warm and damp slide against her neck, it felt like thick wet sandpaper, and in spite of the warmth, Serena shivered. She finally opened her eyes, and two large, brilliant blue eyes warmly gazed down at her, just a shade paler than hers.

Serena would've screamed, had it not been for her scarred throat.

The giant panther's ears flicked, flattening slightly against its skull, and its whiskers twitched. Its gaze was wary, almost reproachful—but how was that even possible? It was a giant wild jungle cat; they didn't _look_ like anything but big, dangerously carnivorous felines!

"_Serena, please don't be alarmed."_

The jungle cat was _talking_—in a voice that sounded too much like Luna, only darker, deeper, like a sensuous purr. Catlike.

Serena would've thought she was hallucinating, but she knew better. Too much bizarre things have happened to her already, and perhaps this wasn't the worst.

"Luna," She mumbled quietly, and it was not a question, but a statement.

Luna confirmed it anyway, her large feline head nodding, _"Yes."_

"The…?" Serena wanted to ask about the Hellhound, but her voice failed her.

"_Dead."_

Serena said nothing. Her heart was racing. Luna, in the form of a giant panther, was still an intimidating sight, it didn't matter that Serena knew she would not harm her.

"_I'm a Benandanti,"_ Luna explained, crouching low over Serena. Serena could feel the heat radiating off of Luna's fur, and realized she was trying to keep her warm. _"We are, to put it very simply, werewolves—or were_cats_, as you can see. We are anti-witches, and warriors of Diana, the Goddess of the Moon. It is only when I am in this form that I am able to see a Hellhound, or any other advocate of black magic."_

"You couldn't mention that before I was attacked?"

"_I'm sorry,"_ Luna said, and nudged her maw comfortingly against Serena's cheek, _"But you wouldn't have trusted me if I told you. The first time we'd met officially, you had tried to kill me." _

"Well, um… sorry about that, I guess." Serena felt her eyes droop. She felt so tired, the fatigue was almost painful.

"_Serena, keep your eyes open!"_

"Just… five more minutes, momma."

"_Serena, please, open your mind to me. I can save you, just give me permission! Remembering is the only way you'll survive!" _

"Mmm, whatever…"

Before Serena let her eyelids fall, Luna's Prussian blue eyes glowed until it nearly blinded her.

…

* * *

**Acknowledgments:**

I don't own Supernatural, Sailor Moon, or the State of South Dakota! Well, now that that's out of the way, I hope this chapter explains some things, but maybe it gave more questions than answers. xD I also hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's different when you're the one writing the story, so I wouldn't know. :I

If you're confused about whether the SM universe still exists or if this is just a complete AU: it's a little of both. You see, all the major parts of the anime and/or manga have happened, except in the universe of Supernatural. So the Sailor Senshi aren't senshi, but rather, hunters and/or supernatural familiars, and their enemies aren't aliens, but demons/ghosts/etc. It'll be explained eventually, and if not, then I guess I'll just explain it in an AN later.

Thanks to the 6 readers who reviewed the last chapter: **Princesakarlita411**, **Sleepygurl**, **Moon Mage Goddess**, **Sunshine Fia**, **SilverMidnightKitten**, and **Ally0212**! I really appreciate that you guys took the time to review. :) And I apologize if I haven't replied to your reviews, but I read and appreciate every one!

Next chapter will almost definitely maybe for sure have the Winchester bros. and Serena finally meeting.

Review?


	4. The Memory Remains

**The End's Beginning**

* * *

In all of the four years which she'd lived in Japan since she was ten years old, Serena never felt more embarrassed. The results of the English test she'd taken last week had been handed to her earlier that morning by her English professor, Ms. Haruna, and her test score was significantly less than stellar, as it were.

Out of all of the classes she took, English should have been her best subject. It was her first language, after all. But, ironically, that wasn't the case. She was better at Physical Education and Art, in spite of the fact that neither one was her favorite subject. That particular slot was reserved for Home Economics, even though she tended to unintentionally set her cooking on fire. She just liked the smell of the food, even when it was burnt and overcooked. As a growing teenage girl, her appetite was virtually insatiable.

Serena dreaded the disappointment on her mother's face. Her father, on the other hand, she wasn't too worried about. He wasn't particularly interested in her academics, and while that might've appeared disconcerting to most people, especially in Japan, Serena was just glad there was one less thing on Ken Campbell's list of high expectations from her.

"So what was your score for last week's English test?"

Serena clutched her test sheet close to her chest, almost jumping at the sight of Umino sneaking up behind her. There had been a brief instant where she'd been ready to punch him in the face, out of sheer instinct, but when she realized it was only the bespectacled geek, she allowed herself to relax just a little.

Serena harmlessly backhanded his arm, "You're so creepy! Don't do that!"

"_Itai_! That hurt!" Umino winced, rubbing the bicep where she'd hit him. "I just wanted to say hello. Why are you still in school? Finally taking tutoring lessons like I suggested?" He chuckled as if he knew that probably wasn't likely.

Umino had spotted her sitting underneath one of the trees decorated around the school campus, and had decided to join her. Classes had ended for the day, but he had stayed back for cleaning duty, so he'd been both surprised and delighted to find Serena on campus.

A small, delusional part of him hoped she'd stayed back to wait for him. He had been hopelessly infatuated with the blonde foreign girl almost as soon as he had been assigned to be her personal guide during her first year at Crossroads Junior High School. Her thick golden hair and unbelievable blue eyes reminded him of a super-heroine from his favorite anime series, and her striking guileless features possessed a certain magnetism which, before now, he had thought was only reserved for European actresses.

"I don't want to go home," Serena mumbled, shoving the crumpled test sheet into her satchel.

Umino brought his hand up to adjust his thick horn-rimmed glasses, concern in his dark eyes. "Is everything okay?"

Serena glanced up at him, her brows raised, as if suddenly realizing who she was talking to. For a boy, Umino Gurio was known to be very nosey.

Out of all her classmates, Umino was the only one who could actually speak English fluently. She'd been attending her local middle school for almost a year now, but the only genuine friends she'd ever really made was Crossroads Junior High School's biggest nerd, Umino Gurio, and Naru Osaka, a sweet girl Serena had known since elementary school.

Umino was quite a genius among his peers and excelled in all academic subjects that didn't involve physical exertion, English literature in particular. It was for this reason that Serena tolerated him. He was her friend, certainly, but he was also very odd, even by teenage standards.

"Everything's fine, I just don't want to go home," Serena insisted, grabbing her satchel and shooting to her feet.

"I am heading to Naru's place to give her the class work and homework she missed today. Would you care to join me?" Umino offered, fighting the blush creeping up his cheeks as Serena gave him a quizzical look. "She has not been coming to school these past few days, remember?"

"Oh, right." Serena frowned. "Okay."

"_Sugoi_—I mean, great!" Umino sputtered, inwardly cheering. "My bike is right over there—"

"If it's alright with you, Umino, I'd rather walk."

Umino deflated. "Oh."

"You can join me, if you'd like," Serena offered, a small apologetic smile gracing her lips. She hadn't meant to brush him off like that. Serena was aware of his crush on her. She'd made it very clear she wasn't interested and never led him on, but Umino was still her friend. Sometimes he'd still try and fail to flirt with her, but while it was annoying, she wasn't about to let things be awkward between them because of something as superficial as teenage hormones.

"I would love to!" Umino immediately brightened, and for a second Serena thought he was going to do a little happy dance, but he simply grinned.

Serena left a message on her father's mobile phone that she'd be home late and explained why. They left the campus together and began to walk the short ten blocks to Naru's apartment complex.

Naru's family owned a chain of jewelry shops around Tokyo, and Naru's mother oversaw and managed Osa-P Jewelry in the residential district of Azabu-Juban. The Osaka family was well-off in terms of money, but Naru and her mother, Mayumi, were both very laidback and independent, and preferred the simple life instead of luxury. That was why Naru chose to attend Azabu-Juban's public schools, even though she could've easily attended an expensive private school, like T.A. Girl's Academy.

They walked together in relative silence, though occasionally Umino would go on about the latest gossip in school, or his favorite anime. Serena only listened halfheartedly, making sure to nod whenever he paused to catch his breath, as if she was giving him her full attention.

"You know, people are disappearing around this neighborhood," Umino remarked conversationally, not the least bit worried himself. They were only a couple of blocks from Naru's apartment complex now. "It is part of why I asked you to accompany me. It is no longer safe to travel alone, even in the day." Indeed, there were very few people on the streets, not many dared to go out with a kidnapper on the loose, and the ones that did walked in groups or pairs.

Serena remembered briefly hearing the news of people suddenly vanishing around this particular neighborhood. It had been going on for three weeks now, and already five people were reported missing, mostly young women. Some people thought the Yakuza was behind it. The superstitious elderly residents claimed the place was cursed by the spirit of a young girl who had died in that neighborhood almost ten years ago. As the story went, her boyfriend cheated on her and then dumped her. She had been pregnant with his child, and both her grief and shame had led her to hang herself. Serena vaguely remembered that particular story because her father was one of the investigative reporters who had covered the tragedy. She couldn't remember the girl's name, and admittedly she didn't really want to. Death was not a topic she liked to consider.

But Umino had another theory for why young women seemed to go missing, involving alien abduction and human experiments. Either way, Serena wasn't too interested. Ken had always reminded her to keep her head low and stay away from other people's business. Ironic, given that he was a hard-hitting reporter. Serena found it easier to just listen to him without too many questions.

In spite of herself, Serena smirked, "So you thought I could protect you, huh?"

Umino flushed, "No! I mean, it is not that I think you are unable to protect yourself and… _ano, gomen'nasai_…" Sheepishly, he brought his hand up to massage the nape of his neck. He was nervous, she could tell. Umino always reverted to speaking Japanese when he was nervous.

Serena teased lightheartedly, "Don't worry, Umino. I'll keep an eye out for any aliens that might want to abduct you. But if you ask me, it's about time you returned to your own planet."

Umino's whole face reddened, but he was smiling sheepishly once he'd realized she was only joking. "_Hijō ni omoshiroi_," He muttered, dryly, but he was still grinning as he rolled his eyes.

Serena eyed him suspiciously, her lip curling into a pout. "That better not be some kind of insult."

Umino raised his hands in a gesture of peace, "_Īe_—I mean, no. I just said _very funny_."

"I'm going to guess that was said sarcastically." Serena smiled wryly. She could read Japanese literature generally well, but couldn't seem to be able to speak or understand the spoken language with the same proficiency. She knew enough to get by, and was content with that. This was because she spent more time reading Japanese comic books, called _manga_, than actually speaking the language, and that self-inflicted disadvantage was a fact which partly aided in her underachieving. The other fact was that she was just bored and generally apathetic towards schoolwork. In other words: she was lazy.

Serena suddenly felt the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck rise and stiffen, the familiar tingle of gooseflesh crawling up the length of her arms. It was the feeling of being watched. Serena tensed and abruptly stopped walking, glancing over her shoulder. And then she saw it, a shape in the distance. A small, shapely black cat stood so still it could've passed as a statue.

"Is something wrong?" Umino asked, concerned. He'd also stopped to stand with her.

Serena relaxed. She frowned at herself, shaking her head. "I'm alright. It's just… that black cat's been following us since we left school."

Umino glanced behind him, squinting at the feline which was indeed following them. He adjusted his glasses, and couldn't help the short humph of laughter that escaped his mouth, "I did not know you were superstitious. It is kind of spooky, _ne_? People have been saying this place is haunted since those guys went missing."

Serena's face pinked, and she retorted defensively, "I'm usually _not_. That's the same cat that's been following me for the last three weeks."

"Spooky," Umino quipped, biting back a smile. "Isn't a black cat supposed to be bad luck?"

"I'm serious!" She shoved his arm, her face definitely flushed now.

"Okay, okay," Umino pouted, messaging his sore arm. "How do you even know it's the same cat?"

"It has blue eyes. And, I repeat, _it's been following me for the last three weeks_."

"Well, it's _gone _now."

"Huh?" Serena blinked, round-eyed. She quickly whipped around and, sure enough, the black cat was gone. Her brows creased, unsure whether she should feel relieved or confused.

Umino peered at her curiously. "Why do you think it was following you?"

Serena frowned. "Um, the day I came across it, I was late for school and ran into some boys from Juban High School. They were tormenting the cat, so I made them stop."

"You… made them stop," Umino repeated, dubiously.

"Yeah, and it's been following me ever since."

"How did you get upperclassmen to listen to you?" Umino was surprised, and a little worried. The idea of Serena standing up to high school boys seemed dangerous somehow. Juban High School was quite known for its delinquents.

"I asked them _very nicely_," Serena told him, smiling dryly.

Umino somehow knew she was lying, but he did not question it. There were a lot of things he didn't know about her, she was quite mysterious in that sense, and that made him crush on her all the more.

They arrived at the apartment complex, slipping into the lobby, which they discovered was oddly empty. Naru's family owned the apartment, and while the building was sleek and impressive, the interior was simple and economical. The Osaka family business was philanthropic, and the prices of apartments in this particular building were usually inexpensive.

The lobby was eerily quiet. Serena glanced at the empty reception desk at the end of the entrance hall, a strange sense of foreboding tightening the knot in her chest. She walked up to the desk, leaned over the table and peered over it, half-expecting the dead body of a receptionist lying on the other side of the desk. There was no body, and Serena felt foolish for even thinking there might have been, but somehow her trepidation still lingered.

"No one is around," Umino uselessly pointed out, whispering for some reason. He hadn't followed her to the desk, opting to simply stay close to the main entrance of the building. "The receptionist is probably on a break."

Serena went over to him and grabbed his sleeve, "Come on, we'll just take the elevator up to Naru's floor."

Umino remained rooted to the floor, shaking his head vigorously, "I think it is more practical to just leave her homework on the receptionist's desk with a note addressed to her."

"Don't you want to know if she's okay?" Serena furrowed her brows and gave him a sharp look. "What are you afraid of?"

"I am not afraid!" Umino flushed, embarrassed. "Fine, let's just hurry," He conceded sullenly, and let Serena drag him into the elevator.

Naru lived with her mother in a quaint little penthouse apartment at the very top floor. Serena had been there only once before, when she was twelve. It had been a Friday afternoon, Naru had invited her to her mother's penthouse after school and Serena had made the mistake of not letting her parents know she'd be coming home late. Irene Campbell had been almost hysterical with worry, and Ken had literally tracked her down and dragged her back home. Afterwards, he had made her clean his entire firearms collection by herself as a type of discipline. It had taken her all weekend.

Thinking back on it now, their reactions might've seemed rather excessive, but since then she had made a point to avoid worrying her overprotective parents. At any rate, they were no longer upset when she came home late these days. She had grown to be reliable and sensible enough that her father trusted her to come home safely. Ken had given her a mobile phone, a small canister of pepper spray, and a sterling silver switchblade in case of emergencies. She never left home without it.

The elevator chimed as it reached the top floor, the metal doors sliding apart on cue, and they stepped out into the hall together, Serena practically pulling Umino along. The only apartment in that floor was the penthouse, and its plain mahogany doors were clearly displayed at the end of the corridor.

Serena hurried to the doors, and carefully tapped her knuckles over the dark veneered wood. The sound it made was resounding, but somehow muffled at the same time. She waited for only half a minute before knocking on the door three more times, calling out, "Hello? Ms. Osaka? Naru? It's me, Serena… Umino is here, too. We've come to give you the class work you missed."

There was no answer, only a silence that was as still as death.

"They are probably not home," Umino muttered. "We should just leave it under the door and go, Serena. Come on, I have cram school in the evening."

"If Naru was sick she wouldn't go anywhere."

"Maybe she is at a hospital?"

Serena shot him a withering look, "Don't even joke like that."

"Why are you so worried?" Umino pouted. "She is probably too tired to answer the door. We should leave and let her rest."

Serena opened her mouth to retort, but hesitated. She frowned, "I… _fine_, let's just go."

It wasn't long before they exited the building and left, Serena distinctly remembering that the receptionist had still not returned from his presumed break time. Umino had to return to Crossroads Junior High for cram school, and she'd followed him simply because it was encouraged to travel in pairs lately. Her house was nearby, anyway.

They exchanged quick friendly goodbyes, and after watching him disappear into the main entrance to the school building, Serena finally headed home.

She was halfway through her walk when she realized the blue-eyed black cat was following her again. She tried to ignore it, which wasn't hard. Like most cats, it moved almost soundlessly. But Serena still felt those strange feline eyes on her, such a vivid royal blue that it almost seemed luminescent against its pitch-black fur.

She remembered the day she'd came across it, saw its luminous blue eyes for the first time. Serena wasn't the type to get involved in fights. If anything, she hated violence. But when she'd caught sight of the small group of delinquents tormenting the poor animal, her righteous anger had made her forget she was late for school entirely.

Without thinking, she had shouted at them in plain English, demanding that they'd leave the cat alone.

Serena was small and waiflike, and obviously foreign. It was no small wonder that once they saw her, their attentions on the cat were instantly forgotten. They rounded on her, deciding to torment the _gaijin_ instead. There were three of them, and Serena was only vaguely aware of the dark high school uniforms they wore.

Looking back on it now, it seemed like a really stupid thing to do, drawing attention to herself like that. Her knuckles had bruised and bled when she'd hit one of them in the nose, effectively snapping the cartilage apart, the way her father had taught her. She had kicked one of the boys in the groin, and another boy in the shin. One of them had suddenly pulled out a pocketknife and managed to graze her arm, and that had actually _infuriated_ her. She'd made quick work of incapacitating them, and they had fled, limping away with bloody lips and bruised faces.

She had skipped school and had spent that day nearby a local arcade called The Crown, where she'd met Andrew Hansford, a young college exchange student who worked part-time at The Crown as an assistant manager. He attended Temple University and studied medicine to become a surgeon, which came in handy when he had cleaned the cut in her arm and the bruise on her knuckles.

They had become good friends after that, and, admittedly, Serena liked him—really, really liked him. She'd never felt so hopelessly enamored before and she refused to admit it was a crush, but that's what it was, plain and simple. He was kind and handsome and unlike any man she'd ever met, and she was a teenage girl chockfull of raging hormones.

"I guess I owe you for that, huh kitty?" Serena spoke, glancing at the black cat. "If it wasn't for you, I would've never met Andrew. It was even worth my parents' reaction when I came home that day with my arm bandaged and blood on my uniform." She chuckled wryly.

The cat just stared up at her with serious blue eyes, blinking owlishly, seemingly disinterested.

She was finally home, standing outside of the simple iron-wrought gates of her family's quaint two-story home, and, like always, the feline stood a sizable distance beside her, swishing its tail expectantly. It would follow her in, but refused to enter the house or accept any food they left out for it, simply wandering around the front yard or sitting on the bough of the willow tree towering over Serena's tiny balcony on the top floor. At first it was creepy, but Serena had gotten use to it and her parents didn't seem to mind the quiet stray cat loitering around their yard.

Serena pushed the gates open and hurried into the house, using her spare keys.

Serena slammed the door behind her. She heard old country music coming from inside the house, the low, guttural voice of Johnny Cash singing the lyrics to _Mean Eyed Cat_, one of her mother's favorite songs. Serena always knew Irene was home when there was Johnny Cash music playing in the house.

The music stopped abruptly, and Serena heard soft footsteps quickly approaching.

"Serena? Is that you?" Irene called, walking out of the kitchen and into the foyer, wearing a frilly apron over a modestly pretty sundress, and pink oven mitts tucked into her hands. She smiled in a way that could only indicate relief, "Umino called and said you'd be coming home soon. It was nice of you to walk him to cram school."

Serena was slightly distracted by the scent of warm chocolate chip cookies lingering on Irene's clothes. "Huh? Oh, yeah. I wanted to make sure he got back alright, we went over to Naru's place to give her some work she missed today."

Irene nodded solemnly, a frown carved onto her face. "That's right. I heard it's not safe to walk alone around that neighborhood anymore."

"Sorry if I worried you, Momma," Serena said, her brows creasing.

Irene was beautiful in a way an antique porcelain doll was beautiful, delicate and petite, with warm bottle green eyes and dark, wavy strawberry-blonde hair often mistaken for red. It was incredibly moving to see someone so visually delicate in any kind of distress.

Irene just smiled and shook her head, "I wasn't." She quickly hugged her, sighing into Serena's pale hair, "You're getting so big already. You practically don't need me to look after you anymore. Don't mind me, I'm just an old mother who might never stop worrying."

Serena awkwardly hugged her back, flushing. "Aw, _mom_," She mumbled, embarrassed, but grinned affectionately and tightened her arms around Irene, inhaling the scent of lemon and chocolate chip cookies. "You're not old. _Poppa's_ old, but not you. He's _ancient_ compared to you."

Irene finally released her, laughing earnestly, "Well, he may have a few white hairs on his head now, but my Kenny is still as fit and handsome as he was the day I met him." There was real, honest love in her voice as Irene spoke, and then she closed one eye in a sly wink, "Just as_ energetic_, too."

Serena grimaced, "Momma, no. Just… _no_."

Irene giggled and ran her hand over Serena's hair, ruffling it. "Speaking of my wonderful husband, he'll be coming home late again. He's been swamped lately with all this Editor in Chief business. I swear, sometimes I wish he never took that promotion."

Serena just shrugged. She'd been somewhat confused when her father had announced his promotion to executive editor of the magazine company he worked for. He had been an investigative reporter before his promotion, the very best the company had.

Serena always thought that Ken was not comfortable with a desk job, preferring to be out there doing something productive instead of wallowing in a tiny cubicle or even a fancy office. But while it confounded her when he'd traded in his adventures as an investigative reporter to sit in an office and order people around, she wasn't too surprised. Ken was imposing when he needed to be, and he was very good at getting results, no matter what was required of him.

"Oh well, his loss. I'm baking some cookies. Want to wait in the kitchen? They're almost done."

"You have to ask?" Serena raised an eyebrow, grinning.

They went into the kitchen together and Serena hopped onto the marble island in the middle of the room, sitting on the edge and kicking her feet back and forth in a kind of childlike anticipation.

Serena closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of the chocolaty treats. She licked her smiling lips, "They smell _good_."

"Umino told me that your class got the results of last week's English test today," Irene commented conversationally.

Serena snapped her eyes open, her body tensing. "Uh," She sputtered, mentally cursing Umino's big mouth.

"So, how did you do?" Irene smiled excitedly, the way a proud parent should.

"Uh…" Serena felt dread and panic twist her insides into a nervous wreck. Resignedly, she said nothing more, pulling the crumpled test sheet out of her satchel and, with her head hung, handed it over to her mother.

When Irene took the sheet, Serena immediately backed away, already anticipating a worst-case scenario in which Irene would kick her out of the house with no cookies.

Irene stared at the sheet for a long time, her brows creasing. And then, she muttered, "_Thirty-nine_ percent?" She tore her eyes off the sheet and looked at Serena, utterly confounded. "Serena, this was an _English _test. It's your first language. How could you've failed so… _miserably_?" She placed the sheet of paper on the table, incredulous.

Serena flushed, feeling more and more embarrassed with herself. She couldn't even meet Irene's eyes.

Irene sighed, and then she said gently, "You know, Johnny Cash once said: You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space. Try to remember that the next time you're taking a test."

"I'm sorry, Momma. I just… I've had a lot on my mind lately."

Serena almost jumped when she felt Irene's hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She stiffened, and looked up into Irene's warm, sympathetic eyes.

"Does it have something to do with the nightmares?"

Serena felt something cold and dark sliver up the length of her spine, dread, but she fought it down. "No…" She said, haltingly, "I mean, not really. I'm used to it already."

"You shouldn't have to be."

"It's nothing, Momma, really," Serena dismissed, withdrawing into herself. "I guess I'm just worried about Naru, and the news about the missing people around her neighborhood has also been bothering me. She hasn't been coming to school lately, she's been really sick and every time I try to see her, her apartment is always empty. I've been thinking… maybe they're connected somehow?"

Irene seemed to tense. She said, slightly terse, "Serena, I'm sure it's nothing. And even if it isn't, it's none of our business."

"But I thought maybe if you told Poppa—"

"No," Irene interrupted sharply. She hadn't meant to sound so gruff, and instantly regretted it when she saw Serena flinch. Irene sighed wearily, "I'm sorry, Serena, but you know your father doesn't do that anymore."

Serena swallowed the lump in her throat. "I know. I'm sorry. I just thought he could… check. Naru's my best friend. Maybe the reason why the police have no lead on the kidnapper is because whatever is abducting these people isn't… human?"

Irene couldn't even look at her daughter. Her brows were creased, an anxious frown carved deep into her face, but her eyes were unfathomable. Serena almost regretted even bringing up the subject.

A sudden high-pitched ringing went off, and both of them flinched at the noise. It was the sound of the egg timer placed over the oven, indicating the cookies were ready.

…

The visions poured into her mind without warning, all at once, filling in the spaces in her memory which had previously been unclear and inconsistent. It was like remembering childhood memories she thought she had long forgotten, but there was so much fighting, so much pain, and she was reliving it all over again. Names and faces of people she'd loved and lost; creatures she'd killed, people she'd fought, victims she couldn't save, and victims she could.

She wanted to stop it. It was all too much, too soon. There seemed no end to it. _No. Stop. I don't want to do this anymore, I can't—_

And then her pleas were answered. Serena heard an explosion like thunder, and she was ripped out of the nightmarish memories and into the waking world with a startling, fierce suddenness. It had felt as if she'd been drowning, and someone had grabbed her by her hair and pulled her up, breaking the water's surface for air.

Serena gasped, the frigid night air hammering relentlessly into her lungs. She felt a sharp, brief stab of pain that came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. She was disoriented, her head was pounding, the blood rushing through her ears like rapids, and for a moment she thought she was going to black out. Her cheeks were wet, but it wasn't from sweat or blood. Somehow she'd been crying the entire time without realizing it. Even now, she felt the tears unwillingly slip out of her closed eyes.

Luna's weight and warmth had left her, and Serena felt a chill that reached into her very bones. She had almost forgotten about the wounds the Hellhound had inflicted upon her, but the pain seemed to return with a vengeance, just to remind her.

The sound of gunshots shook her eardrums, and among the explosion of noise she heard Luna's animalistic roar against her. It was as if the world around her was reeling too fast for her to keep up. Her eyelids felt like lead weights, but she struggled to open them, if only to escape the darkness that now infuriated her. When her eyes finally did open, it was just barely, her vision unfocused and watery.

"What the hell was that thing!"

She heard a voice shout from somewhere above her, and Serena felt two sets of heavy footsteps shake the dirt floor. Alarm and paranoia gripped her chest and _squeezed_. She did not recognize the voice, but she kept perfectly still, tensed.

Someone kneeled over her, and somehow Serena knew it was a man. The moonlight shone behind him, casting him in shadow, accentuating the shaggy brown hair and broad expanse of shoulders which could only belong to a young man well past his teens. He spoke with obvious alarm, "Oh my God—Dean, it's Serena!"

Serena didn't have the time to wonder how this man even knew her name, she barely even registered it. She flinched when she felt his warm fingers carefully touch the area underneath her jaw, felt her own pulse quicken against his fingertips.

"She's alive," The man sighed, clearly relieved, but his voice still shook. Absently, he brushed her hair out of her face, presumably to get a better look at her.

"My God," Dean muttered, stunned. "She's a freaking mess, Sam. Is she going to…?"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Sam told him, glancing up at his brother, but only for a moment. His attention was on Serena again, his brows furrowed and his mouth set into a tight, anxious frown. "She's lost a bit of blood, but it doesn't look deep. We have to get her out of here, fast."

"Her eyes are open," Dean noted with alarm, quickly kneeling beside Sam. He looked at her, and Serena willfully stared back, unblinking. His forest-green eyes glinted eerily underneath the glow of the moon overhead. "Hey… can you hear me, Serena? You're going to be okay. You're safe now."

The conviction in his voice made Serena want to believe him. She struggled to speak, and tasted blood. So many questions she needed answers to were at the tip of her tongue, but the muscles in her throat refused to cooperate. Her mouth curled into a pained grimace, and as hard as she tried, she couldn't smother the whimper that slivered through tightly pursed lips.

Wasting no time, Sam fastened his revolver into the waistband of his jeans and peeled off his tan Harrington jacket, gingerly pulling her up to a sitting position so he could wrap it around her. The jacket practically dwarfed her, acting as a blanket.

Instinctively, Serena struggled, her hands on his chest and pushing him away. She didn't know anything about these men, and if she'd learned anything from the harrowing events that had just happened, she wasn't about to trust them so quickly.

Where was Luna? What had happened to her? If they had hurt her, Serena swore she'd make them pay.

"It's okay," Sam spoke, his voice soft and placating, "We're friends of Bobby's. We're here to help you."

Serena stilled at the mention of her uncle, not sure what to think. They could be possessed. Demon's lied as much as they manipulated. But if that were true, they would've killed her by now.

They could be any number of things that were no friends of hers. She had a lot of enemies, she'd learned, but most of them were either dead or reformed. The fact that these two men seemed to know Bobby Singer only proved to bring up more questions than answers. But, for some reason, she suddenly recalled something Trista had told her…

_"They'll follow you."_

_"They?"_

_"Bobby Singer and the Winchester brothers." _

Serena tried to get a good look Sam, her eyes adjusting to the darkness and what little light the moon seemed to offer. Were they the same young men that had been talking with Bobby earlier that morning? Was it even possible that they were also the Winchester brothers Trista had mentioned?

Sam used her momentary stillness to carefully gather her up in his arms and get up onto his feet. He held her close, as if she weighed nothing, one arm supporting her back and thoughtfully avoiding her wounds, while the other arm was tucked underneath her knees.

Serena winced, even the slightest movement irritating the gashes on her neck and back, as well as the minor bruises scattered around her body. But she could tell that he was trying to be careful, trying to make the experience as painless as possible, and in spite of herself she was grateful to him for it.

"I'll go on ahead and cover you. That thing might still be out there," Dean said, raising his colt in front of him. The sleek chrome revolver shone even in the night.

Sam nodded curtly, and Dean walked ahead of them, leading them out of the woods. Sam followed after his brother at a slower pace, well aware of the wounded girl in his arms. "We're going to get you to a hospital," He explained, as if this information might somehow comfort her.

It didn't.

Serena shifted anxiously, trying to buck herself out of his arms. "_No_," She groaned. Though her voice shook, it held a desperate, stern finality. No. No more hospitals. There were too many people, too little privacy, she'd be completely defenseless. She couldn't risk it. It would be like the incident with Deirdre all over again.

"Calm down," Sam told her, struggling not to drop her. But she was squirming incessantly, making it difficult for him.

"No. Hospitals." She ordered through clenched teeth, reaching into the inner pocket of her jacket.

When Sam felt the cold muzzle of the peacemaker pressed against his abdomen, he almost dropped her altogether. He froze, feet rooted to the dirt floor, staring down at her with wide eyes.

Serena evenly stared back. "Put… me down," She breathed, her voice hoarse. "I won't go to a hospital. I _won't_." Luna. She needed to find Luna. The Benandanti was the only one she could rely on for answers right now. She needed to find out what had happened to her.

Dean had turned around when he realized his brother had stopped. "What the hell are you doing?" He exclaimed, catching sight of the gun glinting in Serena's hand. He hesitated, before raising his own gun and aiming it at her. "Stop!"

Sam was conflicted. In her condition, it would be easy just to incapacitate her. But on the other hand, it was reckless. She had a gun to his stomach, and if he tried anything, he knew it wouldn't end well for either of them. He and Dean had come all this way to protect her, not hurt her, and she was already injured enough as it was.

Sam looked up and saw that Dean appeared just as stunned by the sudden turn of events, and Sam knew at that moment that Dean felt the same. They had not expected this at all.

Dean stared at his brother, searching Sam's face for a sign, some kind of answer as to what they should do now.

Sam shot him a meaningful look and hoped that Dean understood: _don't aggravate her, do as she says, and above all, _don't_ hurt her_.

By the grimace of Dean's expression, he didn't seem to like Sam's idea at all. In fact, he thought it was a _terrible_ idea. But, seeing as he couldn't think of a better one, he just nodded, grudgingly putting his gun away and raising his hands as a show of surrender.

Sam conceded, placidly, "Okay. We won't take you to a hospital, you have my word, just… be careful with that gun, alright? I know you're afraid, Serena, but trust me, you don't want to do something you'll regret. If you just tell us what's wrong, we can help you."

"What's _wrong_ is that you're still holding me. Put me down. As long as you don't try anything, it won't go off."

Sam did not miss the thinly veiled threat behind her demand. He nodded passively, frowning. He slowly put her down, mindful of the gun's muzzle still nudged against his stomach. When she got to her feet, Sam raised his hands up in a gesture of submission. They stood less than a foot apart from each other, and she kept the peacemaker pressed firmly against him.

Serena suddenly took a step closer and Sam tensed when he felt her free hand reach for his waist, slipping underneath his undershirt. Serena did not break eye contact with him, but her face was expressionless. When he felt her fingers close around the handgun tucked against the waistband of his jeans, Sam grimaced.

Serena stumbled away from Sam, now armed with two guns, his own revolver aimed at his chest and the peacemaker aimed at his brother. With the little leaves and twigs caught in her disheveled blonde hair, his jacket dwarfing her body, and the blood dripping gradually down her neck and a corner of her mouth, she looked vulnerable and small. She looked like a victim.

But then there were her eyes, intense and unafraid, almost smoldering in the moonlight like hot blue coals. Sam didn't doubt that this girl was the daughter of a hunter. Her hands shook, but her handle on the guns were firm and professional. She had obviously held a gun before.

Serena gestured the peacemaker at Dean, and ordered, "Take the magazine clip out of your gun and toss them."

Dean hesitated. Actually, he outright_ refused _to take orders from her. Dean stared her down, green eyes intense underneath furrowed brows, "Why are you doing this?"

Serena stared back at him unflinchingly, but it was clear she was struggling with the pain and exhaustion of her body. "You shot my cat."

Dean looked at her as if she was insane, a combination of confusion and indignation. Ironic, since Serena felt that her eyes had never been more open, her understanding and reasoning had never been sharper.

"I'm not going to say this again—separate the magazine from your gun and toss them," She instructed, gently, as if she were speaking to an ignorant child. "Look, it's nothing personal. Just… tell Uncle Bobby I'm sorry. Going to him was a mistake. He doesn't deserve to deal with my baggage, and the same goes for you two. Tell him I got away, or I went to stay with someone else._ Whatever_. Just leave me alone."

Dean stood his ground. He refused to be threatened. "I'm afraid we can't do that, sweetheart. You're gonna have to tell him yourself, when we take you back to Sioux Falls—one way, or the other."

"Big talk for someone who's got a gun pointed at him," Serena quipped, unimpressed.

"Yeah, well, it's hard to feel threatened by a ninety-eight pound girl with a bad hair day and blood gushing out of her throat," Dean retorted darkly.

Sam was shooting him an urgent look that clearly said _shut up you idiot you're not helping the situation!_ But Dean was impervious to Sam's criticism by now.

Serena actually smiled, her cheeks dimpling, but the sliver of blood trickling down the corner of the mouth gave it a morbid effect. "I guess that's one of the perks of being in this business practically my whole life. Hunters tend to develop an impressive tolerance to pain, don't you think?"

A tiny part of her was aware that she was lying, but only a little. She could feel the pain, taste the coppery tang of blood on her tongue, she even knew the extent of her wounds—and she'd definitely be feeling the worst of it in the morning. But she bore it as if it was just an inconvenience, like getting caught in the rain, the way she'd been taught to. It was one of the few memories of her past that she was actually glad had returned.

Serena felt the corners of her lips sink into a frown as she recalled just exactly who she was, _what _she was, and what she did. Her hold on the guns tightened, but she fought to stay calm. It would do her absolutely no good to let her emotions distract her, not now.

"So you _are_ a hunter?" Sam spoke, brows drawn together, his eyes calculating. It wasn't hard to believe, but they needed confirmation. He and Dean had had a feeling that she was more than some unfortunate victim ever since they'd learnt she'd singlehandedly escaped that mental institution in Michigan.

"It's complicated," Serena said, distantly.

"We've got time," Sam told her.

"It's none of your business."

"Newsflash, sweetheart—you _are_ our business," Dean bitingly cut in. "You were adopted by Kenneth Campbell. He was our mom's brother. She was killed by a demon, and your parents were, too. You see a pattern here?"

Hoping to mollify the increasing tension, Sam quickly added, "What my brother is trying to say is… we know about your parents, Serena, and we think that what killed our mother killed them, too. We can help each other—we can help _you_. Something big is going on here, and our family is in the middle of it. We need all the help we can get."

Serena's brows creased. She swallowed the lump in her throat, a frown carved deep into her face, and they could tell by the look in her eyes that a piece of her metaphorical armor had cracked. "Poppa… had a sister?" She looked away as if in disbelief, only for a moment, trying to absorb what they'd just told her. The very idea was almost overwhelming.

Sam didn't hesitate, seizing that opportunity to lunge at her. It all happened very fast, almost instantaneously. He immediately went for the guns in her hands, and managed to jostle the revolver out of her hand before she could react. It hurled itself far off to the side. Serena tried to aim her peacemaker at him, but he caught her wrist before she could pull the trigger, his fingers painfully tight around her wrist as he shoved his weight against her, tackling her to the ground.

A stab of pain shot up her arm and she involuntarily released the weapon. The gun slipped out of her hand as they hit the ground, skittering out of her reach. Serena screamed through clenched teeth out of both pain and rage, infuriated with Sam's underhanded move and, above all, angry at herself for letting her guard down.

"I don't want to hurt you!" Sam was shouting at her, trying to calm her down as he struggled to pin her.

"Oh, but I'm going to hurt _you_," Serena growled, furious. She reeled her head back, and before Sam realized what she was doing, she bashed her forehead against his face. There was a muffled, sickening _crunch _as her brow hit the bridge of Sam's nose so hard that he keeled over and fell onto his back, completely dazed, his nostrils gushing blood.

Serena leapt to her feet and just barely managed to avoid Dean's fist rushing at her face. As he stumbled forward from the momentum, she kneed his stomach. Dean grunted pitifully, doubling over in pain, but he did not fall.

Serena blinked rapidly as she wiped the trail of blood that slid over her eye. There was a small, fresh cut over her brow where her head had hit Sam's nose, and the blood was impairing her sight. It didn't help that a huge roll of clouds had suddenly obstructed the moon, making the night grow even darker.

Dean was quick to use this to his own advantage and tackled her to the ground, grabbing her into a headlock. Serena struggled, kicking her feet violently and elbowing him, but it was clear she was losing strength.

"You… are one crazy bitch," Dean panted, still recovering from getting kneed in the stomach. He just couldn't help being snarky, even under such grim circumstances.

Serena didn't respond. She was already out cold. He had submitted her to a sleeper chokehold.

Sam was just coming to, groaning and spitting out blood. He blinked and shut his eyes tightly. His whole face felt sore. "_Guh_."

Dean unceremoniously let go of Serena and she slumped, face first, to the dirt floor. He stood up, panting slightly, bent over with his hands on his knees. He glanced down at Sam sprawled on the ground nearby. "You alright?"

Sam rolled over onto his side and staggered to his feet. He winced, wiping the blood off his face. Sam gingerly touched his hand to his nose, and winced once more, quickly withdrawing it. "Ye—yeah. I don't think it's broken."

Once he was sure Sam was alright, Dean grinned, chuckling audibly. The quiet laughter soon turned into shameless, uproarious snickering.

Sam looked at Dean as if he thought his brother had suddenly gone insane.

Dean stared back at Sam's dumbfounded expression and laughed harder. When he caught his breath, Dean leered, "Dude, you just got beat up by a _girl_."

Dean's lighthearted insult barely even registered with Sam. It only reminded him of Serena. He looked at her prone figure lying on the dirt, and frowned, hurrying over to her.

Sam knelt over her, turning her over onto her back. He looked up at Dean, his brows furrowed. "What happened?"

Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. He grumbled petulantly, "Don't look at me like that. Look at _her_. _She's_ the one who kicked your ass." He absently laid his hand over his stomach, where Serena's knee had hit him. It still hurt, and would probably bruise, but he'd never admit it. Dean scowled, "You'd think Bobby would tell us that she would put up a fight."

"Yeah… that was weird." Sam frowned, and Dean could practically hear the gears in Sam's head turning. "The way he talked about her, you'd think she was just some poor victim." Obviously, that wasn't the case with her. Serena had been beaten and bloody, it was miraculous she'd manage to stay conscious at all, much less stand. But she did more than that; she had taken them both on in a fight, and Sam suspected that if her injuries hadn't given her a disadvantage, she might've been able to hold her own.

Dean saw where Sam was going with this, sort of. "Maybe she didn't tell him she was a hunter?"

"Why would she keep it from Bobby if she was? He'd understand more than anyone. And she didn't actually admit to being a hunter," Sam said, ever the observant one. He still had that contemplative look in his eyes, but he didn't say anything more.

"We'll just have to ask her, won't we?" Dean muttered. They could worry about it later. In the meantime, he was tired, and hungry. He just wanted to lie down in some motel room, have a sandwich, and maybe a beer.

Sam just nodded, and made a move to scoop Serena's unconscious body in his arms.

Dean clamped his hand against his brother's shoulder to stop him. He shook his head. When Sam looked confused by the gesture, Dean just smirked and said, "Oh no, _I'm_ carrying her this time. If she wakes up in your arms, she'll just beat you up again."

Sam rolled his eyes at him, but didn't object.

…

When Serena regained consciousness a few hours later, the first coherent thought that went through her head was: _damn, I've gotten rusty_. And then: _ow, my head and—pretty much every other part of my body._

She didn't immediately open her eyes, not yet. Serena squirmed a little, trying to figure out where she was through her other senses. She was familiar with the metal binds around her wrists—handcuffs. Her hands were pinned together over her head, and when she furtively flexed her fingers, she felt the cold metal handlebars of an iron-wrought headboard. From what she could tell, she was lying on a bed. The mattress was stiff and uncomfortable, but the thin blanket over her was what gave it away.

As soon as the last vestiges of sleep left her, she remembered exactly what had happened before she'd been forced to lose consciousness, and she wasn't happy about it. She'd let her guard down, and paid the price for it. They had overpowered her. And now she was tied to a bed and held captive by a couple of hot-blooded hunters.

Serena willed herself to relax, seeing no use in struggling against her metal binds. Panicking wouldn't help, no matter how much she wanted to at that moment. She needed to calm down and meditate, try to find a solution that would get her out of this mess—except she'd never been very good at coming up with plans to begin with. That had been Luna's expertise.

Serena frowned. Where _was_ Luna?

Cautiously, Serena breathed in through her nose. She caught the scent of warm, salted french-fries in the otherwise stale air, and opened her eyes immediately. Serena felt the taste buds on her tongue buzz with anticipation, her mouth salivating involuntarily.

She hadn't eaten since early yesterday, and the insistent pangs of hunger were starting to take its toll on her. It weakened her, and in addition to the dull pain of her physical injuries, she felt defenseless and very exposed. It was an unnerving realization.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Serena felt her fingers instinctively curl into tight fists as she recognized the gravelly baritone of Dean's voice. She craned her neck, her gaze zeroing in on the general direction of his voice. She didn't have to look far. Nearby the bed she was handcuffed to, Dean was sitting by the window, a white paper bag and a carton of steaming french-fries set over the small table in front of him. He was biting into a big, juicy cheeseburger in his hands.

Serena tore her eyes away from Dean and gave a cursory inspection of her surroundings. It wasn't hard to figure out that she was in some cheap, nondescript motel. The paint on the walls were chipped and covered in a thick film of nicotine from the accumulation of cigarette smoke the room had endured over the years. There were two iron-wrought beds adjacent to each other, one of them she was currently occupying, and a tiny bathroom on the other side of the room. There was a four-chest drawer with a vanity mirror set against one wall, a frayed armchair in a corner, and a nightstand positioned in between the beds that had a lamp and an outdated phonebook on it. Nothing looked new.

"Nice place, huh? I had to pay the guy extra to keep his mouth shut about the girl covered in blood in my backseat. That's quality customer service, right there," Dean quipped, having been staring at her the entire time she'd been observing the room. He took another bite of his cheeseburger, and added, "You owe me sixty bucks for that, by the way."

Serena ignored him. "Where am I?" She demanded quietly, taking care not to strain her aching throat.

"That's it?" Dean tossed her a cynical look. "What, no angry threats? No kicking and screaming? You're taking this whole _handcuffed to a bed_ thing a little too well." He smiled insolently, "Makes me think you've been put in this position before."

Serena stared at him, smothering the urge to punch that cheeky grin off his face. She needed to tamp down on her temper; otherwise she'd only just end up hurting herself trying to break free of the handcuffs.

Serena squirmed, tugging uselessly at the handcuffs coiled tightly around her wrist. She would've liked to kick off the blanket that was tucked over her waist, but realized that she was only in her boxer shorts and an oversized shirt that didn't belong to her.

Cheeks reddening, Serena made a mental note that as soon as she was free of the handcuffs, she'd find out which one of them had undressed her and castrate him with a butter knife.

"Hey, don't move too much, you might reopen your cuts. Sammy worked hard to patch you up, you know, _in spite_ of the fact that you went homicidal bitch on us and practically broke his nose." Dean shot her a pointed look as he mentioned this.

Serena stared back, her mouth pursed into a frown. She hadn't failed to notice the gauze and medical tape over the gashes on her neck and back. Her wounds had been cleaned, sutured and bandaged with an almost thoughtful diligence. There was even a Band-Aid over the small laceration on her brow.

"Am I supposed to feel bad? He came at me _first_."

"He wasn't going to hurt you."

"But _you _were."

"You _headbutted _my brother in the face, excuse me if I took it a little personally." Dean said pointedly. He set his food down and gave her a measured look, his eyes hard. "What the hell is your problem anyway?"

"_You_. Your little brother. And the fact that neither of you will leave me alone."

In spite of himself, Dean was surprised, but he hid it well. "What makes you so sure he's younger than me?"

Serena looked away, blinking owlishly at the ceiling. "The way you talk about him, like he's a little kid—typical older sibling complex. I'm betting you treat him like a kid, too. He must really hate that."

Dean narrowed his eyes at her, "You've got some sharp ears on you."

"Wait till you get to my teeth." Serena's lips stretched into a patronizing smile, but it was uncertain if she was grinning or just bearing her teeth at him predatorily. "Now, I'm going to ask again, where am I?"

Dean told himself it was only his imagination that made him think the canines of her teeth were unusually sharp. He looked at her for a long time, as if he was staring at a bizarre puzzle, and then he shook his head, giving up, "As if you couldn't get any freakier." He picked up his cheeseburger and resumed eating. "And I _don't _have to answer your questions."

"That makes two of us."

"Fine with me. We're hauling your boney ass back to Bobby's the moment we get back to him. We can get our answers there."

"Where _is_ my uncle?"

"You sent us on one hell of a goose chase, you know. Bobby's in Bismarck, we had to split up. We called and told him we found you, and he told us to meet him back in Sioux Falls." Dean smirked, "From the way he sounded on the phone, I'm willing to bet he's gonna give you a piece of his mind about you running off like that."

Serena just let out a petulant groan and lay her head against the pillow, glaring at the cracked, stained ceiling.

Neither one of them said a word for a minute, but in spite of the fact that they were both stubbornly ignoring each other, the silence was thick with tension.

It occurred to Serena, belatedly, that Sam wasn't even with them. She spoke into the silence, "Where _is_ your brother, anyway?"

Dean paused from wiping the grease off his fingers with paper towels he'd pulled out of the white paper bag. He hesitated, before informing her, "Shopping, actually. For _your _new clothes. You know, since your old ones were kind of torn up and bloody. Meanwhile, I'm stuck here babysitting you."

Dean was fairly okay with the arrangement. He wouldn't have been caught dead in the lady's department of a clothing store, anyway, and even if he had, he'd probably end up picking out something skimpy. Dean's taste in women's clothing was as inappropriate as his taste in women. He would've been no help. He knew it, Sam knew it, and that was why Sam had made him stay behind in the motel.

Serena didn't respond. Her brows creased, her mouth curving into a puzzled frown. She stared at Dean for a long time, as if searching for any signs that he may be lying. And then, she said very clearly, "Christo."

Dean scowled. "I'm not a demon."

"You're a _jerk _like one. It was an honest mistake." Serena scoffed, but seemed to relax just a little.

Dean shot her a disdainful look. He averted his gaze and sighed, frustrated. This was going no where. She was stubborn, but so was he. One of them had to be the bigger person and try to reconcile their differences. And, to Dean's annoyance, he knew that the bigger person had to be him.

She was very distrustful, and a part of Dean, the hunter that made up the majority of him, could understand why. She was a hunter as much as she was a victim, and it just made her that much more paranoid. But they needed her to know that they weren't the bad guys, that she could trust them.

When they'd finally caught up with her in Deadwood, he and Sam had thought it would lead to answers. Now, it only seemed to leave more questions. She was more of a handful than either of them had expected. They'd found her, expecting some vulnerable, frightened young woman, and instead they got a hunter that nearly overpowered them both.

Hunter or not, Dean wanted to take her against her will to Bobby's house and lock her up somewhere she wouldn't get in any more trouble. He was convinced she was some sort of danger magnet for the supernatural, and he did not like it. But Sam didn't agree with his idea, at all. He had insisted they try to reason with her and earn her trust, instead.

Dean had grudgingly given in to the more civil alternative. But if Sam's plan didn't work, at least Dean would have the satisfaction of telling him _I told you so_.

"Alright," Dean spoke up, grabbing the carton of fries on the table, "Here's the deal: I'll give you these french-fries in exchange for your cooperation. How about it?"

Serena eyed him for a moment, wary. She looked away with a huff, "I'm not hungry."

"You're a damn liar," Dean told her, smirking patronizingly. And, because he couldn't help himself, he added, "I saw the way you were eyeing my cheeseburger. Unless you were staring at _me _like you wanted to put me in your mouth…?"

Serena threw him a withering look, "I think I just lost my appetite. _Forever_."

Dean shrugged, still grinning. This was kind of fun. "Alright, then I'll just help myself to these fries… while you watch." He tossed a few french-fries into his mouth, just to spite her. With a mouthful of french-fries, he said tauntingly, "_Mm_, they're still warm. Crunchy, too…"

Serena looked increasingly aggravated, her lip curling into a surly pout. "Will you let me go of these handcuffs if I agree?"

Dean pretended to think about it, "Hm. I dunno. If I do, will you promise you won't try to run away, _or _hit me?"

Serena bit her lip. Honestly, she didn't think she could make that last promise, now that he mentioned it. She nodded stiffly, relenting, "I won't run away. I promise."

Dean leaned forward and tilted his head to one side, as if he hadn't heard her, "I didn't hear you promising not to hit me."

Serena remained silent, feeling torn. She was starving, sure, but food might not taste as good as pure unadulterated payback.

Dean noticed her hesitation, and smirked. "There's your answer."

"No, wait—I promise!" Serena quickly amended. "Just unlock these cuffs already!" She didn't care anymore. She was hungry, and when she was hungry she wasn't known to be rational. And, perhaps, a small part of her wanted to believe that Dean was not her enemy. He was a jerk, sure, but not a bad guy, and the same went for his brother. She'd faced enough enemies to tell apart the good from the bad.

Dean quipped, "What's the magic word?"

Correction, Dean was an _infuriating_ jerk. Serena realized that perhaps it would be harder to resist hitting him than she'd originally thought.

"Unlock these cuffs, _please_," She sneered.

"Say it like you mean it."

Inwardly, Serena called him every demeaning name and profanity she could think of. Outwardly, she gritted, "Pretty please with whipped cream and a damn cherry on top, will you let me out of these handcuffs?"

Dean shrugged, clearly amused. "Close enough." He pushed his chair back and stood, reaching into his jeans' rear pocket and pulling out a tiny key as he stepped towards her.

Serena tensed when he moved between the beds, placing the carton of fries on the nightstand before he bent over to reach for her bound wrists, fiddling with the handcuffs. He was leaning directly over her now, and Serena suddenly wished he'd hurry up.

She eyed him, her gaze calculating and wary. Dean wore faded blue jeans and a cotton-spun black shirt that seemed to stretch over solid muscle every time he moved. His body was lean and athletic, and very apparently dangerous. His fingers brushed against her wrist and they felt callused and scarred. He looked and felt like he'd been a hunter for a long time.

There was a necklace around his neck that dangled directly above her face as he bent over her, and Serena stared at the pendant thoughtfully, debating whether or not she should attempt to incapacitate him. She wasn't sure she could. From what she remembered of last night, he was a capable fighter.

As if reading her mind, Dean paused, glancing down at her. His was expression stern. "No cheap shots or anything like that, alright?"

Not trusting her voice, Serena just nodded impatiently.

There was a clinking of metal locks becoming undone as Dean finally released her, and Serena was quick to cradle her wrists to her chest, messaging the faintly blistered skin. Dean stepped back a little to give her room. She sat up and pressed her back against the headboard, bringing her knees up to her chest until they slipped out from under the blanket. She looked up and finally met his eyes.

Serena raised her leg and kicked him in the stomach, hard enough to send him stumbling backwards onto the other bed, but not enough to harm him.

For a moment Dean was thoroughly stunned. He sat up abruptly, gaping at her with open incredulity, but it quickly turned into anger. He said furiously, "You said you wouldn't hit me!"

"I lied," Serena shrugged, picking at the carton of french-fries in her hands. She was contentedly munching on the salted, deep-fried snacks. "But it's not like it hurt. Man up. The only thing damaged was probably your massive ego." Very soon the carton was empty, and she was licking the tiny pebbles of salt off her fingers left over from the fries.

Dean bristled, but he was angrier with himself more than anything. He should've anticipated that she would hit him, even if it was just harmless payback for teasing her. Her underhanded move had actually surprised him.

Serena had a slender figure, long supple legs and a swanlike neck that gave the illusion that she was tall, when in fact she was actually quite petite. Her warm, guileless features gave her the appearance of innocence and comeliness, but more so stunning fragility. She did not look like a hunter, and doubtlessly it gave her a great advantage in a fight. She could be easily underestimated.

Dean ought to make sure he would not underestimate her again.

"What happens now?"

Snapping out of his thoughts, Dean looked at her. She was staring up at him expectantly, her legs crossed beneath the blanket around her waist. Like she'd promised, she was cooperating.

Dean blinked, "Uh. I guess some questions are in order."

Serena looked reluctant. "I have a few questions of my own."

Dean sat up straighter on the bed. He nodded, albeit cautiously. After a moment, Dean realized he wasn't sure where to start.

When it was clear he wasn't going to say anything, Serena took the initiative and spoke, "Were you telling the truth? Did Poppa… Ken… he really had a sister?"

Dean drew his brows together, but bluntly confirmed, "Yeah."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "Do you have proof?"

"Who's asking the questions here?" Dean grumbled, but answered anyway, "He kept a journal. Her picture was in it."

Her eyes widened. She had not known her adoptive father had kept a journal. "Where is it?"

"It's in the Impala, but Sam took it. If you want to see it you'll have to wait until he gets back."

"How did you even find it?"

"Sam wasn't lying when he said we were friends of Bobby's. If it hadn't been for him, we wouldn't have known you even existed. He sent us to look into your parents murders, and we discovered his journal—and that he was our mother's brother."

Serena eyed him dubiously. "You never knew your own mother had a brother?"

"She… didn't speak of her family a lot when she was alive."

It was the way Dean spoke of his mother which made Serena drop the subject. Her eyes seemed to glaze over, her mind recalling a very old memory. "Poppa wasn't a man of many words, either. He never talked about his family, but Momma use to tell me that they were all dead."

Dean shouldn't have been surprised, but it still angered him that his own uncle seemed to have cut off all ties to his only living relative. Kenneth was a hunter, but had he even known his only sister had been brutally murdered, eviscerated and left to burn to death? Did he even try to lift a finger to help John, Mary's husband and Dean's father, hunt down the monster that killed her?

If Bobby hadn't called them to look into the Campbell's murders a week ago, Dean would never have even known they existed. Ken had abandoned his own little sister, his own blood, and to Dean that was the worst kind of betrayal. Perhaps it was wrong of him to think so, and he'd never admit it out loud, but he felt no sympathy for the death of Ken Campbell.

"He was a hunter." It was a statement, not a question.

"No." Serena shook her head, "He had retired after I was born. He kept his guns, though. Retirement didn't make him any less paranoid."

"You knew?"

"I've known since I was seven. But he'd given up all that, completely swore off hunting or anything to do with it. He didn't even want _me_ to have anything to do with it."

Dean frowned. "Then how did you get caught up in all this?"

"I did it on my own."

"On your own?" Dean repeated dubiously.

"When I was fourteen, an _Obake_ abducted my best friend's mom and disguised itself as her. It's a demonic Japanese spirit that can take on the form of anyone."

Serena's description of the creature sounded vaguely familiar to Dean, "A Shapeshifter?"

"_Sort of_, but this particular _Obake_ sucked the life-energy off its victims. It's known as a _Honne-Onna_, literally the Bone Woman. Her mom owned a jewelry store, so it was the perfect cover to lure victims and keep them prisoner so it could suck the life out of them," Serena explained, but it was as if her mind was somewhere else, in another time and place. "People started going missing around her neighborhood, mostly women. And then Naru stopped coming to school. I got so worried that I sneaked out one night and went over to her house to check on her. I found her half-dead in her bedroom. The creature was with her, still disguised as her mother… She was leaning over Naru and—" Serena stopped, shaking off the unnerving memory. "Anyway, that's when I met Luna. She saved us. That monster kept all its victims imprisoned in the jewelry shop. When Luna killed it, their life-energies returned to them somehow, completely unharmed. Even Naru's mom was saved."

"Luna?"

Serena blinked, thinking that perhaps she was revealing too much. But it was easy to get carried away. She remembered it all as if it had happened only yesterday. And, in a way, it had. "She's… sort of a hunter. I guess you could say she was my mentor."

"And your parents were _okay_ with this?"

"At first, they didn't know."

Dean looked at her, incredulous. "Why the hell would you do that?"

Serena seemed to snap out of her small reverie at the sharp tone of Dean's voice. "Would you have walked away after seeing something like that?"

Dean spoke, unable to keep the frustration and disbelief out of his voice, "At least you _had_ the option to walk away."

She glared at him, her eyes hard and unyielding. "I saw my best friend nearly get the life sucked out of her by something pretending to be her own mother. I thought I was watching her _die_. I would never wish anything like that on anyone. And when I found out I could prevent it, Luna offered to help me. I already knew how to fight. Poppa may've been retired, but he was a paranoid, overprotective father. He taught me how to defend myself. Luna just gave me the means."

Dean stood up abruptly and created some distance between them, unable to accept what she was telling him. He brought his hand up to massage the back of his neck. "You're telling me that you became a hunter because of some misplaced sense of… _righteousness_?" He almost laughed.

Serena's brows were drawn together in slight confusion. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Because no one just wakes up one day and _wants _to become a hunter," Dean said sharply. "There's always something… a tragedy. _Revenge_."

"And what makes it any of your business _why_ I do it?" Serena was quick to shoot to her feet, indignant, but her tired muscles didn't agree with her and she stumbled slightly. Dean caught her arm and steadied her, but she angrily shoved his hand away. Her expression and voice were impassive, but her eyes were full of contempt as she spoke, "Maybe you're right. Maybe that's why my parents are dead. Better late than never."

Dean felt as if he'd been doused with cold water. "That's not what I—"

"Then what _did_ you mean?" Serena interrupted him scathingly. "That one way or another we're all just risking our lives to satisfy some impossible thirst for vengeance? That what we do is motivated by hate instead of the sheer desire to protect what's right and good? My best friend almost died. What was I supposed to do, pretend it never happened? Maybe not everyone is cut out for this kind of job, but not me."

Dean said nothing, glaring down at her, indignant. If he was honest with himself, he'd admit that her earnest righteousness thoroughly unnerved him. He'd never met a hunter like her. For him and many others, it had always been about revenge, perhaps even more so than saving innocent lives. He could not believe that she was the only exception. It almost seemed unfair.

"Why did you run away from Bobby's?"

Serena narrowed her eyes, aware that he was changing the subject, but she decided she didn't care. It didn't really matter, did it? In the end, no matter why they did it, they still saved lives. She had just let her emotions and temper get the better of her, not for the first time.

"I left a note."

"Your handwriting sucks."

A muscle under her left eye twitched, her expression twisting irritably. "All it said was that I was leaving, and I didn't want him to worry about me or follow me."

"Why?"

"I… felt guilty. I'm an emancipated teen, I didn't really need to be there mooching off of an old man."

Dean grimaced. "You're lying again."

"I am not," Serena retorted, a little too quickly.

"You didn't bother to pack your stuff, stole Bobby's car, his gun, and left for no apparent reason. Then you mugged some douchebag and stole his Jeep, making you wanted by the police—sloppy work. You gave the Jeep to some chumps, and at this point I'm pretty sure you did it to deliberately throw us off. And then, out of all the places you could've run off to, you catch a bus to some small-town tourist trap," Dean recited flatly. "It had nothing to do with guilt. You were _running_, and you had a purpose for everything you did. You _knew_ that Bobby would try to follow you."

Dean was more perceptive than he looked. Serena said nothing, her hand absently going up to touch the bandages taped over the scars marring her throat.

Seeing this, Dean added wryly, "And of course, there's the fact that you were almost catnip to a giant man-eating housecat."

Serena's gaze rose to meet his, abruptly, "She wasn't the one that did this to me."

"She? That _thing _was female?"

"She's a Benandanti. She wouldn't have hurt me. They _can't _hurt humans, it's against their nature. Their whole purpose is to protect the innocent, not hurt them."

"That's not what _I _saw."

"You hunters," Serena huffed in exasperation, her arms folded across her chest, "Always so presumptuous. You just shoot first, shoot later, and then when all your bullets are wasted and everyone's dead, _that's_ when you ask questions."

"And that's a bad thing?" Dean's raised a single brow, a condescending gesture, "A dangerous animal with huge teeth and claws was kneeling over you, and you were bleeding. Do the math. We shot the thing and it ran off. We saved your life, so a little_ gratitude_ from you would be nice."

"You didn't save my life." Serena's fingers smoothed over her bandaged throat again, knowing the lacerations would be completely gone in just a matter of days. "She did."

"Excuse me, _who_ did?" Dean demanded, indignant.

"The Benandanti. Luna."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "You lost me."

"A Hellhound was let loose in Deadwood. Luna came here to investigate and kill it. I came along to… help."

"A Hellhound? What, like…?" Dean couldn't even finish his sentence, he couldn't believe it.

"A demon dog from Hell, yeah, it's exactly like it sounds. Luna was hunting it."

Dean had read about them, of course, fiery-eyed black hounds that slaughtered their victims and dragged them to the underworld, but this was the first time he'd heard of an actual encounter with one.

"Luna… your old hunting partner Luna? Where the hell does a… _Benandanti_ fit in all this?"

It was Serena's turn to pinch the bridge of her nose, exasperated. "Luna_ is_ the Benandanti. They're like werewolves, except for the whole full moon thing and the urge to slaughter people. Seriously, you're a hunter. You _should _know stuff like this."

"No, I _should_ know how to _kill _stuff like this." Dean retorted.

Serena glowered, "Just because someone isn't exactly human doesn't automatically make them evil!" She put her hands on her hips, a gesture which seemed to emphasize her indignation, but the motion made the hem of the oversized shirt she wore ride up her thighs a little. She wore it like a short shapeless dress that ended above her knees, the v-necked collar slipping off her shoulder to reveal the hint of a flimsy white bra strap and smooth, slightly tanned skin.

Dean was suddenly glaringly aware of the scarcity of her outfit. He was not a decent enough man to look away, and he knew it. It was probably the weirdest thought to have ever crossed his mind, but he had to admit that his very much _adopted_ cousin looked really good in Sam's shirt. He was sure she'd look even better in one of his.

_And I'm going to Hell,_ was Dean's bleak afterthought.

There were abrupt, heavy knocks on the other side of the door to the motel room. With a start, their gazes whipped towards the noise almost simultaneously. Out of habit more than anything else, Dean reached for his gun tucked away against the waistband of his jeans, hidden underneath his shirt.

The door was suddenly pulled open and Sam entered the room, preoccupied with the plastic shopping bag in his arms and pocketing the keys to the motel.

Dean relaxed, but spoke up irritably, "Took you long enough. You know, you could've said something. I was ready to shoot you."

Sam stiffened as he noticed them. His brows rose, surprised and a little guarded. The bridge of his nose was slightly swollen and there was bruising around his eyes, but it didn't look too serious.

"I knocked," He said pointedly, and then his gaze descended upon Serena standing alongside his brother.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious and maybe just a smidgen of guilt, Serena adjusted the shirt she wore, tugging the plummeting neckline back over her shoulder.

Sam closed the door behind him, setting the bag on the table by the window. He shot Dean a pointed look, "She shouldn't be out of bed." He voice was slightly muffled, due to his bruised nose. It might've been funny if Serena didn't feel so guilty.

Dean didn't bother to hide his own snicker, however. "We came to an understanding. She's cooperating, for now." He threw Serena a brief pointed look, which she promptly ignored.

"I meant that she shouldn't be moving so soon. It might reopen her wounds." Sam explained, tossing a critical look at his brother, "_You're_ the one who wanted to handcuff her to the bed."

Dean grinned insolently, "Yeah, I enjoyed that a little too much."

Sam stared, grimacing at Dean's asinine remark.

Serena kicked Dean in the back of his knee, and with a muffled, undignified yelp he nearly fell over. "Hey, I'm standing right here. Stop talking like I'm not in the room," She grumbled dryly, folding her arms across her chest.

Dean eyed Serena contemptuously, and said, "You know, Blondie, the best thing about revenge is that you never see it coming."

Serena just scoffed, rolling her eyes at him. She truly looked like a typical bratty teenager just then.

Sam blinked at the whole scene, as if he found it bizarre. "Uh. Right. How are you feeling?"

Serena furrowed her brows, a little surprised that such a thoughtful question was directed at her. She answered, awkwardly, "Fine, just sore… um. How's your nose?"

Sam shook his head, as if to dismiss her concern. "You should rest, and try not to move too much. Your injuries weren't so bad, but the cuts on your neck needed sutures. It'll probably heal up in about a week, with minimal scarring."

"I'd like to see Poppa's journal first," Serena requested, not interested in her own injuries. "But… thank you…for taking care of me." She frowned at her own awkwardness. She was never good with apologies, and the whole situation felt ironic considering the fact that Sam and Dean practically abducted her. "Sorry for your nose."

Dean started indignantly, "Hey, what about me? You kneed me in the gut!"

"I'm _not_ sorry for that," Serena stated dryly, without hesitation. "You put me in a chokehold and called me a crazy bitch, and I have a feeling you're not sorry, either."

Dean didn't respond. She was right, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

"How do you know about the journal?" Sam asked Serena, but he was giving Dean a pointed look.

Dean told him, defensively, "She didn't believe me when I said we were related to Ken. The journal's proof."

Sam sighed. And then he glanced at Serena, awkwardly clearing his throat. "Uh, you might want to get dressed first," He told her, taking the bag of clothes off the table and handing it to her.

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks…" Sheepishly, Serena took it from him and hurried into the bathroom. It was incommodious and didn't look any more sanitary than the rest of the motel room, but Serena wasn't about to complain.

There was a small mirror cabinet that stared at her the moment she entered the bathroom, and she blinked at her reflection, a little surprised. She'd forgotten how much she resembled her mother, like a cheap copy of the real thing. There was even a time when she used to think she was pretty, in her own right. But not anymore, not when all she ever saw in the mirror these days was a stranger and, in a certain light, her blue eyes would almost look bottle green, and it terrified her. Now, she almost hated the way she looked, hated her eyes and her hair and her lips.

She was pale, but not sickly. There was a plain Band-Aid across her left brow. Her hair was unkempt, but the twigs and leaves were gone, and it looked and felt as though someone had thoughtfully combed their fingers through it.

It was very hard to imagine Sam picking out the debris in her hair, one by one, and trying to undo the tangles with his fingers. It only made her feel that much guiltier, and she was starting to resent him for it.

When she shut the door behind her, Dean grinned up at his younger brother. "Am I smooth or am I smooth?

Sam tore his eyes away from the bathroom door to look at Dean, his brows drawn together. He looked only mildly impressed, but also suspicious. "How did you get her to settle down?"

Dean shrugged. "What can I say? She couldn't resist the ol' Winchester charm."

Sam pinned him with a blank look. "Is that why she kicked you in the leg, because you were _charming_?"

"Alright, smartass, very funny," Dean spoke mordantly. "Okay, fine, turns out she has a weakness for french-fries. I offered to give her some in exchange for her cooperation so I could ask her some questions. We sort of came to a truce."

"That's all it took?" Sam's brows furled. He was skeptical, but Dean gave no allusion that he was joking.

Dean smirked, an impish quirk of his lips. "I think she likes me."

Sam rolled his eyes, pointedly ignoring his brother's incorrigible smugness. "And you actually trusted her to tell the truth?"

"She wasn't lying. I could tell."

"Yeah, right, because you're so _in tune_ with other people's feelings," Sam quipped mockingly.

Dean scowled, but smothered the urge to punch his younger brother's arm. "Look, do you want to know or not?"

Sam nodded noncommittally, growing serious. "What did you find out?"

"Well, I found out that you have really bad timing," Dean quipped. "But get this: she's been hunting on her own since she was fourteen. Her dad didn't even force her into it. Hell, he was actually _against_ it. Kenneth Campbell really _was _retired, and he didn't want her hunting, but for some crazy reason she didn't listen. He never mentioned having any living relatives to her or his wife, so she didn't even know she _had_ an aunt. Apparently our dear ol' Uncle Kenny claimed all his relatives were _dead_."

"What do you mean she didn't listen?"

"Exactly as it sounds, Sam," Dean said, a little impatiently, "She _chose _to fight other people's nightmares for a living. She's got it in her head that she's some champion of love and justice or something." Dean scoffed derisively, "Twenty bucks says she's actually some kind of thrill-seeking adrenaline junkie."

Sam frowned, skeptical, "That… _might _explain why she ran off to Deadwood."

"Oh no, she actually told me about that one, too. Except I'm not so sure she's telling the truth this time around. Apparently an old hunting partner asked for her help on this hunt for a—"

"A Hellhound," Sam interrupted him, as if in sudden realization.

"Yeah exac—" Dean stopped, sputtering, "Wait what? How did you know that?"

"I didn't spend all that time out _just_ shopping, Dean," Sam started pointedly, "I asked around, tried to figure out if there was any history of wild animal attacks recently. I thought maybe that's what brought her here."

Dean nodded. Sam was nothing if not thorough. "You thought right. What did you find out?"

"Yeah… they didn't exactly make it to the papers, the town tried to bury the incidents because it'd be bad for their tourism business. But there were three victims so far, all torn up and mutilated. Pretty much everyone I talked to said the victims would go on about seeing a huge black dog stalking them before they died, but no one around had ever seen a stray dog matching their descriptions anywhere near Deadwood. I did some research and it's the same MO. It _had _to be a Hellhound." Sam frowned, "But that doesn't make sense. The thing that attacked Serena wasn't a dog…"

"Uh, about that… you know that giant housecat we shot at that looked like it was about to eat her? Yeah, that _was_ her old hunting partner, according to her. Apparently it's something called a Bandanti or Bananer or _whatever_."

"_Benandanti_?" Sam offered, his brows raised and disappearing behind his bangs, the surprise evident in his smoky green eyes. "That explains it!"

Dean was getting annoyed. He felt completely out of the loop, and he didn't like it. "Alright, Mr. Know-it-all, enlighten me. Explains _what, _exactly?"

"The Hellhound must have been what actually attacked her. The Benandanti was just protecting Serena, probably even trying to heal her. And we _shot_ it." Sam frowned, brows furling. "She's telling the truth, Dean."

"Wait, you know what a Benandanti is?" Almost immediately after he said it, Dean rolled his eyes, as if the question itself was absurd, "_Of course _you do, you're like a human-shaped Encyclopedia of _Weirdness_."

Sam scowled, but ignored the gibe. "Look, I don't know much, but I know that they're white witches and they can take on the shape of certain animals at will. Usually wolves, but some took on the shape of other wild animals, too, like the one last night. They claimed to protect people from witches and demons. But I've never seen one before last night. I didn't even think they were real. They were thought to be extinct after the Roman Inquisition."

"What?" Dean was barely registering what Sam was telling him, "A white witch?"

"A _good_ witch, only they were hardly witches at all. More like anti-witches."

"What, like Glinda?" Dean chuckled wryly.

Sam's face twisted in confusion, a little annoyed that they were veering off topic. "Who?"

"Glinda the Good Witch, from the Wizard of Oz. You know, the hot blonde in the puffy pink dress that waves her wand around and…" Dean tried to explain, but when Sam pinned him with a deprecating look, he amended dryly, "Nevermind."

Sam's brows were drawn close together, his expression pensive. "Dean, remember when that receptionist at the hotel said Serena visited a friend staying there? She said her name was Helen Winston. They went to the gulch together, but we only found Serena there. Maybe she was the Benandanti?"

"Seems like it," Dean admitted, grudgingly. The idea that a supernatural creature actually protected people from _other _supernatural creatures was just such a foreign concept to him, especially when it looked like a huge, vicious wildcat. "Her real name's Luna, according to Serena. She's a hunter, too… technically."

"This is all starting to make sense," Sam muttered, as if to himself. "Well, why she ran away and came here, anyway. I went back to the hotel, but they said Winston had checked out last night. Her car was gone, too."

"She just _left_?"

"Would _you_ have stayed if a couple of hunters tried to kill you? Face it, Dean. We're not exactly unbiased when it comes to monsters. I doubt she had much choice."

"Hm. Good point." Dean muttered. "Seems like the more we learn about Serena, the more questions pop up." He grinned roguishly, "She's as mysterious as she is feisty."

Sam's expression was reproachful. "You need to stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"That thing you do around attractive women," Sam stated pointedly, as if it should be obvious, "She's not one of your bimbos, Dean. There are so many reasons why you can _not _hit that."

"So you think she's hot, too, eh? Not surprising, since you're the one who got to strip her last night." Dean sniffed, "Medical treatment my ass."

Sam looked almost scandalized, the tips of his ears tingeing pink. "She's our cousin, Dean."

"That's weird, since just yesterday you were reminding me that she was _adopted_."

Sam glowered incredulously. He pointedly raised his hand and started counting off a nonexistent list with his fingers, "She's Bobby's niece. She's jailbait. She's a hunter. _She broke out of a mental facility_. Her parents were murdered and she's probably still coping. _And_, she's suffering from dissociative amnesia."

"Wait, run that by me again… Associative _what_?"

"_Dissociative_ amnesia, Dean," Sam corrected. "Were you even paying attention when we were at Havenwyck? Her shrink said she was suffering from severe memory repression after her parents died. It's probably why she never told Bobby she was a hunter in the first place. She must have only just remembered." Sam had failed to mention this little theory to Bobby the day before, when this whole chase had started. There had been so much going on that there had just been no time for that. There was also the fact that Bobby had blatantly lied to their faces. It gave Sam even _less_ incentive to tell Bobby anything, but he was sure he must have figured that out on his own. Bobby was nothing if not perceptive.

"Mm, Dr. Gray." Dean smiled slyly, recalling the beautiful garnet-eyed psychoanalyst of Havenwyck Hospital. "I wouldn't mind getting a physical from her. She was a babe."

Sam ran his palm over his face, exasperated. "No, Dean. Just… _no_."

"Hey," Serena called, opening the bathroom door a bit and poking her head out of it.

Sam and Dean immediately quieted, like a couple of crooks caught in the middle of a heist. Dean turned to acknowledge her first, and Sam quickly followed his brother's gaze.

Serena took this as her cue and stepped out of the bathroom. Her hair was tamer now, since she had found a hairbrush in the mirror cabinet. She wore jeans so tight they almost seemed painted on, a cropped periwinkle-blue cardigan and a small scoop-necked white shirt that didn't quite fit, the hem riding up a little to reveal a hint of her navel. She shifted awkwardly, tugging down the end of her shirt, and grimaced.

"They don't fit," She deadpanned.

"I think they fit a little _too_ well," Dean remarked, eyeing her top. He elbowed Sam's arm, and whispered indiscreetly, "Nice job, Sammy."

"Guh," Sam sputtered haplessly, struggling to articulate the words that might explain why on earth he would choose such a clingy outfit for her. "I didn't—I wasn't sure what size you were, but I thought… well, you _looked _really small."

Serena was short, barely five feet and three inches tall. It was easy to misjudge her size and even easier to think she was smaller than she actually was, compared to Sam and Dean, both of whom seemed to tower over her at a little over six feet tall.

"Where'd you buy these things, the kids department?" Serena grumbled dryly.

Sam appeared increasingly guilty, bringing his hand up to scratch the back of his shaggy head.

Dean let out a short _humph_ of laughter, "Oh my God, you _did_ get them from the kids department."

"Pre-teen," Sam corrected grudgingly, as if that might somehow make up for his blunder. If anything, the outfit made it quite clear that she did _not_ fit clothes in the size of prepubescent teenyboppers. Sam added wryly, "But I wouldn't have had to guess if _Dean_ hadn't thrown your old clothes out before we could check for your size."

Undeterred, Dean clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, "Playing the blame game, Sammy? How old are you, five?"

"Hey, don't get all hot and bothered on my account," Serena cut in, rolling her eyes. She pinned Sam with a pointed look, "After all, I _am_ jailbait."

Sam had the decency to blush, mortified.

Dean smirked. He wasn't surprised. "So you heard that, huh?"

"It was hard not to. The walls are so thin," She admitted cynically, folding her arms across her chest, leaning on one leg more than the other. "How Uncle Bobby could possibly tolerate you two is way beyond my range of understanding." She glared at Dean in particular, and told him, "I know Poppa would've shot you by now."

Sam paled. "I didn't mean—what I meant was…"

Serena shook her head, interrupting him, "Forget it. I'm use to it. Poppa use to say it's because of the way I look, something about bringing out the… _conqueror_ in men. They either pity me like I'm some damsel in distress, or want to hurt me. Whatever. He was always paranoid about me and boys anyway."

"With good reason," Dean said, only half-serious, but Serena chose to ignore him.

"We're not here to hurt you," Sam assured her, frowning at her own words. "We came after you because Bobby was worried. If you heard everything, then you know that we just want to understand what happened, and why. We want to help."

"Alright, suppose I give you the benefit of the doubt…" Serena frowned, looking up at Sam. "Why do you care so much? Why do you think that this has _anything _to do with either of you?"

"It's like Sam said last night," Dean explained, trying to seem flippant, "Something big is going on, and it has something to do with our family. This has everything to do with _us _as much as it's got to do with you, and that's why we need to stick together. End all this, once and for all."

Serena moved to sit on the nearest bed, kneading her fingers against her temples. "End _what_, exactly? What's going on?"

Dean hesitated, but after a short pause he relented, "Almost twenty-three years ago, our mom died in a fire. Only it wasn't an accident. Someone… some_thing_ broke into our own home and… it killed her. My dad watched her die. I had to carry my six-month-old brother out of our burning house. We've been hunting her killer ever since."

Sam added, "We think it killed your parents, or at least it was involved somehow. They tried to kill you, too… but you survived."

"And you think it's the same murderer… after twenty-three _years_? Why did it suddenly decide to kill my parents now? Why did it wait so damn long?" Serena felt her hands curl into fists, her fingernails burrowing into her palms until they stung. She looked up at them, helplessly, as if their faces could somehow provide the answers she desperately needed, but Sam and Dean just looked uncomfortable.

"We don't know," Sam said, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he set his jaw.

Dean cleared his throat, and added, "But we're going to find out. That's why we need to keep you around. We'll protect you until Bobby comes to take you back to Sioux Falls, and you'll be lying low from there."

Serena blinked, her brows creasing. "_Protect_ me?"

"Something is out to get you. We're not taking any chances," Sam said.

Serena looked between Sam and Dean, her brows drawing even closer, "And what about you two? Didn't you both just say this is about _all_ of us? Which must mean it's out to get you, too."

Dean started dismissively, "We can take care of ourselves…"

"And you think _I_ can't," Serena finished, shooting either of them a cynical look.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other briefly, neither of them too sure how to respond to that statement.

"Look," Sam spoke, tentatively, "After what happened last night, I don't think it's in your best interest to be too involved in this whole thing right now. You should rest and heal up first, and the best place to do that is back at Bobby's. We'll see what happens from there."

"I'm not going back there," Serena said, with decisive finality. She was quick to shoot to her feet. "I won't endanger him. Something wants to kill me? Fine. But I'm _not _getting him mixed up in this."

Dean said, somewhat impatiently, "Bobby's stronger than he looks. He's good at what he does, and he's all for keeping you safe."

"So was Poppa… but that didn't save him _or_ my mother, did it?" Serena looked away, glancing vacantly at her bare feet sunken into the thick, faded brown carpet.

Dean stared, his face blank and his jaw set. Sam just frowned, his eyes downcast and his brows furrowed, as if in thought. For a long time, they were only aware of the tense silence.

"Bobby won't let that happen," Sam spoke, breaking the uncomfortable lull that had settled over them like lead weights. His voice was clear and husky with conviction. "_We_ won't let that happen. For one thing, we have the advantage of _knowing_. We're prepared. But you have to trust us."

Serena shook her head, staring directly into Sam's eyes with conviction of her own. "No, _I_ won't let that happen, and the only way I can do that with any certainty is if I stay away from Uncle Bobby—and away from _you two_."

"You think we're going to just let you do that?" Dean gritted. "You're not leaving this motel unless _we_ do."

Serena bridled, "You have no right to keep me here!"

"Yeah we do," Dean told her, righteous anger in his voice, "You're barely eighteen. You don't have any _real_ family left. All you've got is us: Bobby, Sam, and me, whether you like it or not. You honestly think you can survive out there on your own? You could've easily _died _last night. Trust me, sweetheart, if you want to kill the bastards who murdered your parents, you'll have to _stay alive_ long enough to do it, and that overgrown housecat of yours did a piss-poor job with protecting you. Hell, it ran away with its tail between its legs! We're the best option you've got right now."

Serena stepped forward and suddenly raised her hand, as if to strike him, but she only poked him hard in the chest with her index finger. She spoke through gritted teeth in a low, indignant voice, "I have experienced a lot more in three years than an average hunter has had in a _lifetime_, so don't talk to me like I have no idea what I'm doing! I don't need Luna and I certainly don't need you!"

"We're not trying to undermine you at all, Serena," Sam conceded, tossing Dean a brief look of admonition. "What Dean meant to say is that we should stick together. There's strength in numbers, and it won't do you any good to play lone ranger, not with something like this. You need to be around people you can trust, and when it comes right down to it, that's family. And, well, we're the closest thing to a family you have right now. We just want to help you…" He paused, almost diffidently, and looked at her through soulful green eyes, "Please."

Dean stared at his brother, somewhat puzzled by Sam's words. He couldn't tell if Sam was lying through his teeth, or telling the truth. Their family had been severely dysfunctional, and _that_ was just putting it mildly. Nobody knew that more than Sam.

Serena was quiet for a moment, pointedly staring at the wall behind Sam. Her eyes were vacant and glassy. Barely aware that she was even speaking, Serena said bleakly, "Then you'll probably end up dead, too."

In spite of himself, Dean's brows drew up a little, the hard look in his eyes receding. He hadn't been prepared for the dramatic change in her demeanor. She had sounded so vulnerable and small. It was quite a far cry from the _attitude problem_ he'd seemed to permanently associate her with.

Sam did not give any indication that he was surprised by her oblique confession. His expression was unfathomable. And then he swallowed the lump in his throat, the only evidence of his personal discomfort. "I know you blame yourself, Serena," He said, stiffly, "Right now you hate yourself because you think you could've done something to save them. You're guilty, and confused, and hurt. But the truth is you couldn't have possibly known something like that was going to happen, no matter how experienced you think you are. That's tragedy. It wasn't your fault."

"You don't know anything," Serena bit back, her voice hoarse with anger. "You have no idea what it was like for me. I've hunted monsters and ghosts and only God knows what else, and somehow I survived them all. I did those things knowing that the next hunt I took on might one day kill me. But it _didn't_. Instead it took my parents away from me! _Why_? They didn't deserve to die like that…" She became quiet, and her voice lost much of its hostility as she whispered, "Why them, and not me? I— I was _helpless_. You don't know what that's like. They were dying and I couldn't do anything. I've saved _so_ many lives, people I barely even knew, but I couldn't even save my own family. I can't let that happen to anyone else again because of me, I just can't. I'd rather die."

Dean suddenly seized Serena's upper arm, fingers closing around her bicep. "_No one's_ dying, okay?" He gritted, his eyes intense underneath furrowed brows. "Not while we're around. How many times do we have to say it before it finally gets through that blonde head of yours?"

Serena looked up at him, flinching, but didn't struggle against his grip. She felt drained, physically and emotionally. It was so hard to act like everything that had happened to her in the past six months wasn't taking its toll on her.

And then there was the matter of which she'd finally remembered her past as a hunter. It felt like a lifetime ago when she, Serena, had actually fought and killed monsters and demons, the stuff that nightmares and legends were made of, but it had only been a year since she'd lost those memories. How could she have forgotten something like that? If only she'd remembered sooner, then perhaps her parents would still be alive…

His grip on her arm relaxed. Dean continued in a more subdued voice, but remained stern and unyielding, "Look, there's no way around grief and loss. You can dodge all you want, but sooner or later you just have to go into it, through it, and hopefully come out the other side. The world you find there might never be the same as the world you left. But I can guarantee you, you won't be alone. You have Bobby. And whether you like it or not, you have _us_ now, too."

Serena averted her gaze, her head bowed and her golden bangs falling over her eyes, obscuring half of her face. It made it difficult to interpret her expression, and Sam and Dean both seemed to tense at the same time.

When Dean felt her trembling, he released her arm as if he'd been burnt. He was never good at dealing with crying women, and somehow the idea of Serena crying in front of him seemed even worse.

Serena tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and when she finally looked up at them, neither of them were prepared for the smile on her face. It was rueful and it didn't quite reach her eyes, but it was still a smile. She was trembling with the effort it took to hold back her own quiet laughter.

"You just ripped off a quote from Johnny Cash," She said, plainly, though it was clearly an accusation.

Dean shut his mouth. Up until now, he hadn't realized he was gaping. "Oh. So you're a fan of the Man in Black, too." He grinned, a little awkwardly, as if he were trying and failing to hide his baffled surprise.

"My mom… she loved listening to Johnny Cash," Serena explained, idly, "She used to quote him a lot, too." She stared at Dean in a kind of wonder, her brows creasing. And then, with a small wry smile, she shook her head, as if to dismiss her feelings. "Out of all the things that could've come out of that annoying cakehole of yours, it had to be something my _mother_ would say."

Not for the first time since he'd met her, Dean grew irritated. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" It was the most aggravating thing about her, how much she confounded him.

Serena let out a sigh that almost sounded irritable. But her shoulders slumped, and it was clear she was in no mood to argue now. "It _means_… you're right." She looked at Dean with something like sincerity in her eyes, and then her gaze slid towards Sam, who seemed to visibly straighten as their eyes met. "You both are."

In spite of himself, Dean was skeptical, "Just like that?" Somehow he'd expected her to be more obstinate, and she was certainly sneaky. But it wasn't hard to believe that, in her vulnerable emotional state, she might simply be prone to indecision and doubt.

"I don't believe in coincidences," Serena spoke, completely serious. She was annoyed, but not surprised with Dean's suspicion.

"Yeah, well, _I_ don't believe you won't knock us both out cold and steal my car the minute we turn our backs," Dean bit back.

Serena bristled. She placed her hands on her waist, and huffed, "You two are the ones who wanted to be _the golden trio_. Now that I'm ready to trust you, _you're _the one not on board?"

"Trust is a two way street, sweetheart," Dean quipped.

Serena glowered dangerously, "If you call me sweetheart _one _more time I'll—"

"_Okay_," Sam intervened, finally speaking up, "Just ignore my brother. Trust me, he doesn't usually think before he talks."

Serena smiled wryly. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't usually think at all."

Dean made an indignant noise upon hearing this, but Sam responded calmly, as if he'd never heard her, "We're glad that you're giving us the benefit of the doubt here, Serena. I don't see why we can't do the same."

"_Thank you_," Serena expressed pointedly, tossing Dean a brief, almost triumphant look which only he seemed to notice.

In response, Dean narrowed his eyes at her, his lips curling into a scowl.

Serena clamped her hands over either side of her thighs, as if in satisfaction, and said, "Now that that's settled, I guess I won't need this…" She raised her hand and suddenly tossed a set of keys at him. Dean caught it with ease, immediately recognizing it as the keys to the Impala. He distinctly remembered putting those very keys inside his jeans pocket. It begged the question as to _how_ she managed to acquire it without him knowing.

Dean looked at the keys in his hand, and then up at Serena. His expression was a mixture of contempt and wonder.

Sam's brows creased. "How did you get that?"

Dean's eyes fell on Serena's too-tight jeans. She couldn't have hid the keys in her pockets, they were too small and compact, and the keys were bulky and conspicuous. His aggravation forgotten, Dean's gaze slid up to look at her. He raised an eyebrow. "Where were you keeping it?"

...

* * *

**Acknowledgments:**

Hey, long time no read. x) If you haven't figured it out already, it usually takes me a little over a month or two to get these chapters out. My family also moved us to another apartment/house last month, which gave me little time to write. This chapter in particular was very difficult to write. Over 30 pages long, lots of talking and revelations and stuff. I know what I wanted to happen, but it's rather hard to put my ideas and musings into intelligible sentences. I want the plot to go one way, but it just flicks me off and says "no way I'd rather go this way, it's way more fun!" _Sigh_.

Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, with the Winchester bros and Serena _finally_ meeting. Plus, a brief flashback of Serena's life before she became a hunter, where you get an idea of what it was like for her. Serena sure is moody, but I guess she's got a pretty good reason to be. It's been an emotional and mental rollercoaster ride for her so far.

_Big_ thanks to **Silver-Winged-Saiyajin**, **Fire Dolphin**, **Sesshy's Mistress**, **Failisse**, **Angel313**, and **Princesakarlita411**. Thanks for reading! Love it? Hate it? Let me hear what you think in a review! I'd appreciate the feedback.

**Trivia:** In the manga, Usagi/Serena's mother's hair is actually red, and Luna's eyes are actually a bright royal blue. In the English Dub of Sailor Moon, Irene and Queen Serenity were voiced by the same voice actor. In this story, Serena's family moved to Japan when she was 10, but moved back to America when she was around 16 going on 17, after the whole Chaos incident.

**P.S.** I changed my penname, mostly because my old one was so _plain_ it was hurting my eyes, so I just combined the names of two of my favorite artists/musicians (Jimi Hendrix & Alicia Keys). :I


	5. All Nightmare Long

**The End's Beginning**

* * *

When Bobby had gotten word from Sam and Dean that they'd found Serena, beaten and bloodied by a run-in with a Hellhound, every fiber of his being had wanted to drive over to Deadwood, take her home, and lock her up somewhere she wouldn't get into any more trouble. But he couldn't. When Sam had told him about the Benandanti, Luna, it was like being doused with cold water. He'd been infuriated, but more so guilty, feeling like he should've been there to protect her.

The news had stunned him, but still he thought he should've known Luna was involved somehow. The dark-haired woman had a knack for showing up at times like this, particularly when it came to Serena's welfare. But unlike Luna, Bobby wasn't so sure about her so-called pure intentions. He knew almost nothing about her, except that she was a Benandanti and an old ally of Ken's before he'd retired, among other things.

It was agreed among all three men that they'd let Serena heal and rest first before she returned to Sioux Falls. In the meantime, he drove straight home from Bismarck—with the full intention of making preparations to hunt Luna down.

As it turned out, he didn't even have to look. The front door to his house was left open. She was waiting for him in the foyer. She'd picked the lock effortlessly.

"Somehow I knew you'd have the gall to show up here," Bobby growled, revealing the shotgun he'd hid behind his back, and aiming it at her.

Luna stared down at the barrel of the rifle, expressionless except for the thin frown curving her lips. She looked disheveled, her hair unkempt and slightly damp, and her dark clothes wrinkled and covered in dirt. She heaved a world-weary sigh, "Come now, Robert. You should know by now I don't mean you any harm."

"That the same thing you told Serena before a Hellhound nearly _gutted _her?" Bobby spat, accusingly.

"That wasn't my fault," Luna gritted, her eyes narrowing. "I had no choice; the situation was out of my hands. Obviously you only heard the _Winchester's_ side of the story, but I'm sure you're familiar with the notoriety of their _prejudice_ when it comes to people like me."

Stubbornly, Bobby didn't lower his weapon. "I'm beginnin' to think they got every right to think so."

Luna sighed. "Surely you're not serious?"

"I'm _completely_ serious, and don't call me Shirley," Bobby quipped, smirking patronizingly.

Luna shot him a withering look. "I _saved_ her from that Hellhound. It would've killed her, Robert. It was going to. I killed it, and I tried to heal her, but your little boys _shot _me before I could do anything about it. Now, bullets can't do a thing to me, they're more like a _scratch_, really—but they sting like _hell _all the same, as you can imagine. Everything was fine before _they _showed up."

"Fine? Exactly how does pittin' _my _niece against a goddamn Hellhound constitute as _fine_?"

"She's no more your niece than she is _my _responsibility. I am her guardian, and I have been since before _you_ were born."

"And you think just because you were buddies with her in some other _lifetime_, you have the right to take her from me?" Bobby smothered the urge to pull the trigger of his shotgun, but it was getting harder and harder to resist.

Luna's brows creased, her frustration becoming evident in her expression. "The only reason why I'm here now is to try to reason with you. I know you want to keep her here, that somehow you think this is best for her—but it's no use, you cannot protect her from fate itself, Robert… but maybe _I _can."

Bobby said nothing for a long time, and it was clear he was seriously considering her words. "What happened to her?" He spoke, finally, "Where has she been all these years? Why did her parents die?"

Luna's luminous blue eyes seemed to soften. "I'm sure you've already gathered that she's lost quite a lot of her memories. I imagine you were hoping she'd never have to remember, am I right? It's much easier to protect her from something she doesn't remember."

Bobby set his jaw. "How did it happen?"

"It's a very long story, and it's Serena's story, so I'm not the one you should be asking. But what I _can _tell you, is that the Campbell's had been in Japan for the last seven years. I imagine that's why you lost touch with them all those years ago. Serena had come very far to become the hunter she is today during her time there, and I protected her as best I could, but a year ago, there was… one hunt in particular. She lost very significant parts of her memory—very _specific _parts of her memories, actually. All of her memories as a hunter were heavily suppressed. Irene and Ken had seen this as a blessing; they'd hoped that they could restart life as a real normal family, but in order to do that they had to make sure Serena never remembered. So they came back here, where they'd hoped that her suppressed memories could never to be triggered."

Bobby wanted to reject what he was hearing. The idea of Serena taking up her adoptive father's legacy was too absurd. Ken had never wanted that kind of life for her; he'd made that very clear. It was why Bobby wasn't shocked to learn that Ken didn't even think to have Serena's amnesia treated. Ignorance was bliss, so to speak, and Bobby didn't even want to imagine what Serena must have gone through. The life of a hunter was not exactly ideal, and Serena's situation was a unique burden, she was so achingly young…

But Bobby knew that what he _wanted _to believe, and what was the _truth_, were almost never one and the same. Serena becoming a hunter was inevitable; he'd known that even when she was just seven-years-old.

"Why did they go to Japan in the first place?"

"You know why," Luna said, pointedly. "Irene feared for her daughter's life. They both did. I suppose they had hoped that by moving to another country, they'd be able to outrun fate—get away from a few personal demons, as it were."

"Is that why they're dead now? Because of Serena's… _destiny_?"

"No one is sorrier about their deaths than I am," Luna said, her voice soft with remorse, "But… no, it isn't. Not really. For once, this has almost nothing to do with Serena."

"Then what _does_ it have to do with?"

Luna answered grimly, "Ken Campbell."

…

Kenneth Campbell's journal was old, weather-beaten, and most of the entries were dated before Serena was born, some even dating as far back as the early 1970s, while others weren't even dated at all. There were several pages missing, seemingly ripped from the seams.

The entries themselves were impersonal, written in scratchy block letters with ballpoint pens, documentations of every supernatural creature Ken had hunted. Witches, werewolves, vampires, demons, hellhounds, they were all there, and more. The book highlighted how big of a threat each monster was, what they were capable of, and what it took to kill them. It was quite literally a cookbook of exorcism rites, incantations, sigils, runes, and about a dozen other pages written entirely in Japanese. It had references to mythology, cryptology, demonology, and even angelology. It was neat and exceedingly complicated, and read almost like an instruction manual.

Somehow, Serena had hoped that there would be something more, something personal, but Ken had kept the journal entries professional and detached. He'd worked with other hunters, but never mentioned names or places.

There seemed to be almost no references to his personal life that was not of the supernatural variety, except for a single candid picture of a striking blonde woman whom seemed to be somewhere between her late twenties and early thirties. Inscribed on the back of the photo were a date, 1979, and the woman's name, _Mary Campbell_. There was a brief journal entry in regards to the Polaroid picture, but even that seemed to have been written objectively.

It read: _Mary has a kid. It's a boy, from what I heard. I can only guess that that Winchester boy is the father. It occurs to me that I am an uncle now, but it feels like this should be happening to someone else. She is building a family of her own, and she's happy. My feelings regarding this particular revelation are conflicted, but they don't matter. I stopped being her big brother a long time ago. Her life is no longer my business. I'm just a stranger to her now. Hell, I had to find out from someone else that she was even pregnant. I doubt she even wants me to be a part of this apple pie life she's making for herself. That's okay. It's more than okay. I don't want any part of it, either. I firmly believe that it is better this way. Aza— _

The rest of the page was ripped off, the words lost forever, and the following pages seemed to reinforce more evidence of missing pages ripped out of the journal, becoming more and more convoluted and inconsistent. Mary Campbell was never mentioned again. But there was no doubt that the revelation about his younger sister had affected him somehow, that he was so compelled to write it down.

Serena felt as though she was reading the journal of a total stranger, but perhaps that was how Ken had intended to write it, straightforward and without prejudice. She imagined his voice as she read each page, as if he were speaking to her through the pages, clinging to an echo she barely recognized and hoping for a sense of catharsis, but she just felt lost.

It was a despairing feeling, realizing she knew almost nothing about the man she'd called _Poppa_.

"Do you know what it means?"

With a start, Serena looked up from her place sitting on the edge of the bed, shutting the cover of Ken's journal in her lap. Her gaze met Sam's. He had taken Dean's seat behind the table by the window, his laptop open in front of him, but his attention was solely on her, staring at her with a look which was both wary and curious.

He was referring the journal entry she'd just finished reading, she realized. Had he been observing her the whole time? Serena didn't know how to respond. She wasn't even sure she wanted to answer that question at all.

"I…" Serena hesitated, her brows creasing. "I don't know. It's the first time I've even heard of this."

Sam seemed unsurprised, but vaguely disappointed. "Oh. Uh, anyway, how's your… how are you holding up?"

Serena's expression was blank. "What do you mean?"

Sam sighed. "Look, I'm not going to pretend like you never heard what Dean and I were discussing earlier, or act like I don't know what you went through. Maybe I can't understand what it was like in there, in Havenwyck, but… I guess I'm a little concerned."

It occurred to Serena that he was questioning her mental stability. She could tell he was trying to be polite about it, too, which was pointless, in her opinion. "You mean, am I emotionally stable?" She smiled wryly, "Afraid I'll have a random psychotic breakdown before you get rid of me in Sioux Falls?"

"Serena, that's not it at all," Sam stated with stern conviction. "I meant what I said. I just want to know if you're okay, that's all. I swear. You don't have to blow it out of proportion."

Serena gave him a measured look, wary. And then she conceded, but she didn't look at him as she spoke, "It's depressing, and surreal, and complicated. I use to get these memories—dreams, really. Mostly nightmares. My shrink would tell me I was just exaggerating certain memories, or none of it was real…" Recalling it now, she truly realized just how deep her resentment for Trista's deception went. Her fingers unconsciously dug into the old leather cover of the journal. "But then it all came back to me, once I escaped that place and met Uncle Bobby. Like a veil had been lifted, and everything was vivid—_too _vivid. I remember everything, all at once, it's a little overwhelming. And now, I get confused, like I'm living someone else's life or I'm still in the past, before my parents were…before they died."

She was twisting the truth, but it wasn't necessarily a lie. Trista had lied and lied for six months, longer than that, even—probably since Serena had met her. For six months she'd made Serena believe she was crazy. And suddenly a demon showed up wearing Deirdre's skin, and that obviously hadn't been part of Trista's divine plan, nor was her meeting her Uncle Bobby Singer.

And where did Luna fit in all this? Was she a pawn, too, or another deceiver?

She didn't know. She couldn't trust them, not anymore. She had a hard time trusting herself, she felt more paranoid than ever.

It was quiet, and when Serena couldn't take it anymore and finally looked up to meet his eyes, it took everything she had to keep from looking away. She saw such sympathy in his eyes, and something else, something deep and personal and inexplicable. It confounded her as much as it warmed her.

She finally tore her gaze away from his as her eyes instinctively swept the room, realizing they were alone. "Where's your brother?"

She looked at the window, the warm evening sunlight filtering through the windowpane and bathing the cheap motel room in a warm honey glow. It occurred to her then that she'd lost track of time, completely unaware of what had been happening around her when she was reading the journal, from start to finish. Some hours had passed since they'd given her Ken's journal and allowed her to flip through it.

"Getting something to eat," Sam informed her, calmly, his eyes never leaving hers even when she looked away. She was changing the subject, but he welcomed it. "You looked pretty into it, so we didn't bother you."

"Oh… yeah, I guess I got carried away with this thing," Serena muttered, gesturing to the journal. Her grip instinctively tightened around it, almost possessively. She glanced around the room a second time, as if in wonder. "I'm kind of surprised we're still here. I figured you'd want to take me back to Sioux Falls as soon as possible."

Sam nodded briefly, acknowledging her remark. "You aren't wrong. But I'd feel better if you were healthier before we take you anywhere. You can eat and rest tonight, and then we'll hit the road tomorrow morning."

Not for the first time, Serena wondered if returning to Sioux Falls was the right thing to do. Trista's warning kept niggling at the back of her mind, twisting the knot in her chest even tighter, but she pointedly ignored it. It was hard to trust that woman anymore, and Serena decided she wasn't even going to try, for now.

She knew one thing for certain, however. She may have promised to go back, but she had no intention of _staying_ there, not for long.

"What about Uncle Bobby?" She asked, looking at him and expecting an answer. "He'd want to see for himself that I'm okay." Serena may not have known Bobby for very long, but she knew that he was a paranoid man, that much was obvious. She'd dealt with overprotective parental figures before, so she should know what to expect. It made her wince just thinking about it.

Sam explained, "Actually, _he's_ the one who gave us the order to wait until tomorrow. When we told him you were injured by a Hellhound, well… he wasn't happy about it. My ears are still ringing from our last phone call. But he _trusts _us to take care of you, Serena. That should be reassuring enough that we can be trusted."

Serena's brows creased, unsure how to feel about that.

"You're probably hungry, right? I told Dean to get something for you, too." He hoped that by telling her this, it might help her relax. While she had agreed to stay with them until they met with Bobby in Sioux Falls, she was still quite tense, and openly wary of them. "Uh. I hope you like cheeseburgers."

Serena set the journal over her lap with a quiet sigh, bringing her hand up to comb her bangs over her head. The short golden curls slapped back against her forehead stubbornly. "I— thank you. All I've eaten today were those french-fries."

Sam's mouth curled, almost like a smile, but it was awkward and apologetic even as his cheeks dimpled naturally. "Yeah, I heard. Sorry about that. Dean can be really…"

"Bitchy?" Serena offered helpfully, a faint, lopsided smile curving her lips.

Sam paused, momentarily speechless. And then he responded, if a little reluctantly, "That's not exactly how I'd put it, but…" Sam blinked and shook his head, realizing he should probably defend his older brother, "I guess he was still a little upset about last night. He's not that bad, really. If anything, his teasing is usually a good sign. It means he's warming up to you."

"Lucky me," Serena muttered lamely, leaning back, her arms propped against the bed. She looked at him then, as if studying his face. "Aren't _you_ upset?"

Sam fought the urge to avert his eyes from her pointed look. He set his jaw, glaringly aware of the dull, steady pulse of pain surging through his bruised nose, but he relaxed when he admitted, earnestly, "No. I understand why you did it. I would've probably done the same thing in your shoes. It was my own fault for pulling a stunt like that. It was pretty stupid of me, too. _I _should be the one apologizing."

Serena drew her brows together, genuinely confounded by his unassuming response even as she felt warmed by his honesty. "You're different from your brother."

Sam was unsurprised. "I get that a lot."

"No," Serena said, shaking her head lightly, still looking at him as if in contemplation, "You _care_ too much. Why?"

Sam took a moment to absorb her words, slightly puzzled, but somehow it made him tense. Something like trepidation twisted around in his chest, and he shifted awkwardly around on his chair. "I… don't see why I shouldn't. Look, I'm not like my brother. I'm bearing in mind that you've obviously been through a lot. I don't have any hard feelings about last night, really. You can relax, Serena."

"It's more than that," Serena insisted, gripping the journal on her lap unconsciously. She had felt it earlier, the strange connection between them. He had empathized with her grief so easily, as if her anguish was also a part of his, shared. She wondered if Sam noticed it, or if he'd been aware of it all along.

Maybe it was the intuition of a kindred spirit, or perhaps misery loved company—or maybe, just maybe, she'd spent too many hours with therapists that she had developed her own knack for nitpicking people's brains. Whichever was the case, it told Serena that there was something particularly tragic about Sam Winchester.

Serena went on to say, "What happened to your mom, it was _years_ ago. You probably don't even remember it. I threatened you with a gun and bashed your nose. You should hate me, but your own brother seems more upset over it than you are. You shouldn't care so much, not over someone like me—unless there's another reason, something else that's motivating you. This is personal for you, isn't it?"

She could see right through his pretense of self-control, recognized the metaphorical armor he'd built around himself, because she donned one just like it. The guilt and grief was still fresh inside him—recent and new, much like hers. It weighed him down until it was becoming a part of his very soul.

It was just in her nature, this innate empathy, and she was beginning to resent it now. She felt like she was meddling, tainting something personal of his, but she couldn't bring herself to stop. She needed to understand his true intentions in order to trust him.

Dean was transparent and overtly expressive; it wasn't hard to gauge his intentions. He was an arrogant, hot-blooded hunter, and she'd dealt with plenty of those. But Sam, he was harder to read. There was a _drive_ in him that was fueled by his recent guilt and loss, a cocktail for revenge. It was unnerving, but familiar, and in the long run it was _dangerous_.

"It's personal for _all_ of us, Serena," Sam said, stiffly. "And…you're family, more or less. We protect our own."

"No, it's pretty obvious I'm _not_," Serena stated, with finality. "I'm as much a part of your family as a potted plant. I don't even know you; we're strangers—or worse, we're _in-laws_. And that's why you don't even have the decency to give me a straight answer." Her gaze fell on the worn leather cover of the journal, "And according to this stupid journal, I barely know the man who raised me, too."

Sam realized what she was doing, but only at that moment. It was a subtle tactic, drawing out information through seemingly unrelated questions that tugged at the emotions. She was indirectly interrogating him, trying to gauge his reactions. She wanted to know something she didn't think he'd willingly tell her if she'd just asked. It was underhanded and deceitful, and she did it well.

A tinge of frustration roiled inside him. He had forgotten that he was in the presence of a hunter. With her, it was too easy to forget.

"Why don't you try asking me _directly _instead of playing mind games?" Sam spoke, shooting her a pointed look.

Serena had the decency to blush, but looked slightly indignant. She did not bother denying it, "I _could_, if you'd actually bother to give me a straight answer, instead of tip-toeing around the subject like you're walking on eggshells. Personally I think I was being pretty straightforward."

Sam felt his jaw clench as he frowned. "You still don't trust me, do you?"

Serena shrugged, the gesture in itself appearing unusually sheepish. "Only a little," She admitted. "You're nice, Sam. A lot nicer than your brother, that's for sure. I don't think I deserve your kindness, but I really appreciate it anyway, don't get me wrong. I _want _to trust you guys. But, I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me. And, well, after everything that's happened, I guess you could say I'm still a little… on edge. I'd feel more reassured if I knew the truth—the _whole_ truth, not some abridged version."

Sam realized she was right, but said nothing. He stared blankly at the keyboards of his laptop. "You're right. It _is_ personal."

Serena's brows creased. She saw it again, that flicker of pain peeking through the surface, pent-up and stirring inside him.

She opened her mouth to respond, but the door to the motel room loudly flung open, and Dean stepped into the room with a white paper bag under his arm and an unwrapped, half-eaten cheeseburger in his free hand.

"Dinner time," Dean quipped, speaking through the food in his mouth.

Sam and Serena stared at him, brows raised and blank-faced. It might have been a comical scene, but Serena wasn't amused. Her jaw clamped shut, pursing her mouth into a grimace.

Dean was suddenly aware of the faint tension in the room, and the dour look Serena was shooting him. He swallowed, and said, "So. What I miss?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Serena beat him to it. "Nothing too exciting," She said, dryly, "Except your brother here needs to learn how to loosen up."

Dean raised a cynical eyebrow at her. He scoffed wryly, "I doubt any man would loosen up around someone like you, princess. But don't mind Sam, he's just a natural born brooder. " He dropped the paper bag on the table, and then offered offhandedly, "You gonna join us for dinner or what?"

Sam furrowed his brows, glowering up at Dean in overt disapproval.

"I've lost my appetite," Serena deadpanned. She reached for the buttons of her cardigan, unfastening them, and shrugging off the woolen material. She was careful to take her time to avoid irritating her injuries, slowly pulling it over her head.

It was strange, how the simple act of removing her cropped cardigan seemed to elicit such a physical reaction out of them. Her tight jeans and clingy top seemed to emphasize that carnal magnetism. It was stranger still that she seemed completely oblivious to her own raw sensuality.

The memory came entirely unbidden, but Sam suddenly remembered when he'd undressed her, carefully stripping off her ripped bloody clothes and deftly tending to her wounds. It had been a purely professional task then, he hadn't even thought about it while it had happened, too concern for her wellbeing to think anything of it.

But recalling it now was a completely different story. She was young and endowed and too pretty for her own good, that much was certain. He couldn't have overlooked her beauty even if he'd tried and, unlike Dean, he literally _did_ try. He almost hated himself for it, getting excited over something as superficial as a young woman's physical appearance. He liked to think he wasn't as shallow as his older brother.

Sam flustered, "What are you doing?"

"I'm tired," Serena told him, getting to her feet. "I'm not sleeping in this shirt, it's too uncomfortable." She glanced around the room searchingly, "Where's that big shirt I was wearing before?"

Dean's voice was almost hopeful as he joked, "Does this mean we get a free show?"

"Ugh." Serena's lips curled into a scowl. "You are such a sleazebag."

Sam ignored Dean's all too familiar crudity and asked her, "You're going to sleep?"

"Hey," Dean started, "That's not fair, there are only two beds. Where's _Sam_ going to sleep?"

Sam gave Dean a withering look, which Dean conveniently didn't notice.

"You said I needed to rest, right? Fine by me, I don't think I can bare a minute of either of you anymore. The sooner I'm away from this _testosterone fest_, the better." She furrowed her brows in concentration, her eyes still searching the room, and muttered as if to herself, "Ugh, where'd I put that shirt? It shouldn't be this hard to find, it was huge."

Sam blinked, and pointed to the bathroom. "You probably left it in there."

Without looking at him, she said flippantly, "Oh yeah, thanks." Walking over to the bathroom, she entered it and shut the door behind her. This was beginning to become a habit of hers.

Dean turned to Sam. "So, what she do to push your buttons?"

Sam almost looked affronted. "What?"

"Don't 'what' me, Sammy. You have that _bitch face_ going on—I've been on the receiving end of it enough times to know. You're obviously brooding."

"I am _not_ brooding," Sam grumbled, focusing his attention on his laptop, "And my buttons were not pushed." He was only vaguely aware of how childish that sounded, coming out of his mouth.

"Didn't I say she was annoying?" Dean went on, as if he'd never heard him. He tore off a chunk of his cheeseburger with his teeth, chewing thoughtfully, "Why do you think I offered to get the food in the first place? Buying cheeseburgers from a pretty cashier sounds a lot better than babysitting _princess_ over there. I've got her phone number to prove it." The receipt with the supposedly pretty cashier's phone number written on it was tucked neatly into his jeans pocket, and he patted it proudly. "So, what'd she say to piss you off? Must've been something a little close to home, since_ both_ of you seemed to have your panties all up in a bunch."

Sam was slightly surprised at Dean's intuitiveness, but disregarded it. "I'm not angry," Sam insisted, and realized he was telling the truth. He wasn't angry so much as he was _bothered_ by the conversation he'd had with Serena before Dean barged in the way he did. If anything, it had taught him that he really ought to stop underestimating her.

Dean decided to drop it, and move on to more pressing matters. "Fine, _don't _tell me, sourpuss. In the meantime, who gets the spare bed, and who gets the ratty armchair?"

Sam blinked at the sudden subject change, but welcomed it. He folded his arms across his chest, and said resolutely, "I'm _not_ sleeping on that armchair."

"Rock-paper-scissors for it," Dean challenged.

Sam stared up at him with a blank, deprecating look. "Are you serious? I am not doing that with you, Dean. We're not kids anymore."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The brothers stared each other down, and then without another word, they shook their fists three times, simultaneously. At the count of three they stopped and uncurled their fists, as per the rules of the game. Sam had chosen _paper _and Dean had chosen _rock_.

Sam smirked. "Paper beats rock. I win."

Dean scowled. "God_damn_ it."

…

Somewhere in a small town in the state of Michigan, a balding middle-aged man drove his old convertible sedan into his garage, the song "Two plus Two" by Bob Segar blaring from the radio. The engine roared and almost drowned out the music, which must have been why the volume was turned up so loud. It was late at night; the quaint suburban neighborhood was empty of people at that particular hour.

The license plate read Michigan, Great Lakes, and between the words in bold white letters, it read: MF 6037.

There was an impressive red jet-ski parked in the far side of the garage, and he'd pulled up beside it. The man turned off the engine, as well as the tunable radio. He turned around in his seat, his hand reaching towards the backseat to grab the black polyester jacket he'd left there. He looked up from his search in time to see the automatic garage door slowly closing shut, as if on its own accord.

"Wha…?" He mumbled, confused. He didn't remember using the remote control to close it.

He turned away from the backseat, and the car's doors suddenly locked themselves, startling him. He reached for either lock on his door and the passenger's side, tugging them, but they wouldn't budge.

The keys to the car twisted, and the engines roared to life once more. Thick, silvery white smoke burst through the exhaust pipe and was quickly taking up the space of the garage.

Panic suddenly gripped him, and he reached for the keys, trying to turn off the car, tugging at the car key desperately. He didn't know what was going on, couldn't even believe it, but somehow he knew he was in danger.

The radio blared to life and was tuning into several radio stations at once, switching from one station to the next erratically. Growing more and more terrified, he tried to turn that off, too.

Then he noticed the smoke. It seemed to rise up and crawl over the windows, surrounding the old sedan. He looked around helplessly, as it seeped in through the air-conditioning vents on the dashboard, gradually filling up the car with smog. He started coughing, panicking now, and pulling at the doors in sheer desperation. He tried to rip out the keys from the ignition again, but it wouldn't budge and he'd only managed to break the handle off.

"Somebody help me!" He cried, coughing and hacking. "Somebody help!" He grabbed his jacket and tried to cover the ventilation, but it was too late. The smoke continued to pile into the car, as if to spite him. He tried to break the driver's side window open with his foot, lying over the seats and kicking and kicking and kicking.

He was suddenly tired, his arms and legs growing slack, his mind muddled and disoriented. He tried to reach for the door, tried to close his fingers around the lock and pull, but he was already dead. There was a gold wedding band on his ring finger. His hand slumped and dangled over the edge of the seat, and his eyes were wide open.

He didn't move again, never again. He was dead.

And then Sam woke up, too stunned to find the will to scream. His head was pounding, the blood rushing through his ears. Sweat beat off his forehead and soaked the front of his shirt. The vision had been so vivid. Somehow he knew it had been _real_, and it shook him to the core. He'd watched a man die in his own car, unable to save him or do anything but watch.

It brought him back to that night, six months ago, paralyzed in abject horror at the sight of Jessica burning on the ceiling of their bedroom, her mouth agape as if in silent supplication, begging him to save her even as the blood pooled around her eviscerated abdomen. He'd felt helplessness and pain then, and he had felt it again in his nightmare, as the man was asphyxiated by smoke exhaust. It lingered even now, as he lay awake, like a crushing weight on his throat and chest.

He whipped his head around the room, seeking out some kind of reassurance, some kind of stability that reminded him he wasn't still burning in his apartment in Stanford, and immediately his gaze fell upon the relaxed, sleeping face of Serena Campbell. She was curled up on her side, snoring, her arms tucked under her pillow, her pale hair disheveled from the tossing and turning of a fitful sleep. Somehow she'd kicked the blanket off in her sleep, and now lay in his shirt and those too-tight jeans he faintly remembered buying for her.

Sam quickly tore his eyes away from the adjacent bed and found Dean, still in his shirt and jeans, sleeping awkwardly on the armchair, which he'd situated directly in front of the door like a lookout. Dean had dragged the armchair to the door himself, still wary in case Serena would try to run away again.

"Dean." Coming to his senses, Sam immediately shot out of bed, not wasting any time. In three quick steps he was in front of his brother and shaking Dean awake, "Dean, wake up!"

"Mmnn…ugh… Sam?" Dean garbled, squinting up at the blurry, towering silhouette that was in the shape of his brother, but Sam was already darting off to wake Serena. Dean brought his hand up to rub his eyes, his brows creasing, "What are you doing…? It's the middle of the night." He winced, and added, "Son of a— my _back_."

"Serena, wake up," Sam said urgently, his hand on her shoulder and shaking her awake. "You've got to get up, right now."

Serena stirred and huffed, irritably swatting his hand off her shoulder, "Go away, Sammy, or I'm telling Momma."

Sam didn't quite hear her, but he'd made out that one word, _Sammy_, and his anxiety was almost forgotten in the confusion, "What?"

"What's what?" Serena sat up, startled and suddenly wide awake. "I'm up, I'm…uh." She rubbed her eyes, just vaguely aware of Sam wearing black sweatpants and a white undershirt that looked exactly like the one she wore. "What's going on?"

Sam wasn't paying attention, scurrying around the room, turning on all the lights and hurriedly grabbing their stuff. "We have to go," was all he said.

Dean suddenly noticed the tension in Sam's voice, thick and unnerving and leaving no room for anything else. "What's wrong?" He asked, half-awake, stretching his stiff jaw. He struggled to get up, and managed to stand.

"_We have to go_," Sam repeated, shooting Dean an urgent look that Dean almost wished he didn't recognize.

Serena stared at Sam with caution, even as he left her side to grab a leather duffel bag left on the table, shoving stray clothes and belongings unceremoniously into the bag. She did not know what was going on, but she had a very bad feeling about it, and she decided to trust those instincts. She got out of bed and grabbed the only two things that belonged to her, sort of: the undersized t-shirt and blue cropped cardigan.

Sam was pulling a brown hooded pullover over his torso, and Dean was shrugging on a denim button-down jacket. They were already at the door, which was wide open, the Impala parked in a lot just outside the room.

Serena realized she didn't have any shoes, they had hid her boots to discourage her from running away, but that didn't stop her from following them outside and over to the muscle car. It was _freezing_ outside, and her feet felt numb almost as soon as she left the motel room.

Dean was packing their stuff into the left side of the long backseat. Sam had taken the keys from Dean and unlocked the trunk of the Impala, popping up the rear hood. Serena had followed him, and now watched in speechless astonishment as Sam leaned over and opened up a secret compartment on the floor of the trunk, revealing a teeming collection of guns, rifles, ammo, crucifixes, holy water, and several other weapons forged to kill all manners of supernatural evil.

In the corner of the trunk, however, she immediately spotted her calve-length suede boots. Gently shoving Sam aside, she leaned into the trunk and reached for her boots. She was startled when he'd grabbed her wrist.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded.

Serena stared at him, slightly unnerved by the apprehension she saw in his eyes. "I… it's cold. I just wanted to get my boots."

Realizing she wasn't lying, he suddenly let her go, and continued rummaging through the assortment of weapons like it had never happened. Serena backed away and quickly shrugged on her boots, aware of Dean joining them behind the Impala and standing beside her as she bent over and tucked her boots over her feet.

"Will you at least tell me where the hell we're going?" Dean grated.

Serena stood up straight, her boots tucked snugly over her feet. For the first time, she felt at a loss for words, trepidation twisting inside her chest.

"Michigan," Sam said shortly, withdrawing from the trunk with what he was looking for. It was just an I.D. of a Marshal for the state of Michigan.

Serena paled. "Michigan?" Her voice shook, even she could hear it.

Sam seemed to notice her uneasiness, and he told her firmly, reassuringly, "We're not going to Auburn Hills, Serena. We just need to check something out happening in another town."

Serena was immediately on edge. "Why? I thought I'm supposed to go to Sioux Falls. Why are we going back there? That's not what you said, you said—"

"I know what I said," Sam interrupted her, grimly. "I just need you to _trust _me on this, alright? Someone is in danger and we need to go _now_."

It felt like an eternity before Serena felt herself nodding her head, conceding. She crawled into the backseat of the Impala and sat against the right door, anxiously pushing her hair away from her face just as Dean shoved the key into the ignition and revved the engine. "Who's in danger? What's happening?"

"A detour," Dean replied grimly. He turned around and glanced behind him as he backed up the car. "Buckle up."

Serena hesitated, but did as he instructed. She brought her legs up and folded them in front of her, trying to keep them warm. Her hands and feet felt especially cold. She suddenly wished she had her old jacket and hoodie, or her gloves and socks, anything to keep her warm.

The Impala's engine roared and they sped off into the night.

Thirty minutes into the drive, a rainstorm struck the dimly lit highway, and the atmosphere in the Impala was still tense. Serena kept silent so far, unnerved by the rainstorm and dreading the prospect of thunder and lighting that might follow. She chose to wait and observe what was happening around her instead of asking questions she knew they'd just avoid telling her. But she was growing anxious, and even more so impatient.

"Alright, I cave," Dean said, "What's this about, Sam?"

"Nightmare." Sam informed him shortly.

Serena blurted incredulously, "_What_?"

They started and glanced back at her as if suddenly realizing she was in the car.

"Eyes on the road!" Serena demanded, referring to Dean.

Dean promptly returned his gaze to the road in front of them, not because he _wanted_ to listen to her, but because it was raining hard and she was right, he had to focus on driving. He suddenly felt like a kid being reprimanded, and it irritated him.

"It's complicated…" Sam tried to explain, but realized too late that that was almost impossible without revealing too much of something that had only been between him and his brother. Even their father didn't know about Sam's psychic premonitions.

"No, I get it. You think someone is in danger. What I want to know is _why_ you think that, and what does a _nightmare_ have to do with it?"

"Well when you put it that way, it doesn't sound all that complicated to me," Dean quipped dryly.

"Are you psychic?" Serena demanded, incredulous.

"What the—how the hell—no, Sam's not psychic," Dean lied, poorly.

"I… it's different," Sam conceded.

"Sam—" Dean tried to protest, but Sam didn't let him.

"No. She's going to find out anyway," Sam interrupted him, pointedly. He turned to Serena, and told her, "I'll just give you the short story. I have these dreams, and they come true. And in the one I just had, I saw a man die of asphyxiation in his sedan. Something locked him inside his car, turned up the engine, and suffocated him in exhaust smoke."

Serena felt like she'd been doused with cold water. She leaned against her seat, a little baffled by the newfound information. "Oh." Serena was many things, but _eloquent _wasn't quite one of them.

She'd dealt with psychics before; Rei Hino had been a medium and fellow hunter, as well as a friend, and she did psychic readings by literally _staring_ into blessed fire, and could sense the presence of evil whenever it was near. Serena had also been involved with an intense dark-haired hunter, Darien Shields, who occasionally had visions and dreams of omens that literally transcended time itself, and could commune with the souls of the dead. Serena smothered that particular memory before it could dredge up any old feelings.

But the idea of Sam being one of them seemed wrong somehow. It wasn't that she thought psychics were bad news, not at all. It just seemed ironic somehow. Dean was obviously biased about matters of the supernatural variety. How did he deal with his younger brother being a psychic? Denial, probably.

Suddenly, it made sense that Sam was so guarded. She almost felt sorry for him.

The silence that followed was tense, and grew tenser still.

Sam busied himself by writing on a moleskin notebook, pen in hand, trying to remember the exact number on the Michigan license plate of the old sedan he'd dreamt the man had died in. He reached inside his pocket with his free hand and pulled out his Blackberry cell phone, calling the police.

Serena stared out the window, hugging her legs to her chest for warmth, deeply confused but too at a loss for words to articulate the right questions.

Dean glanced at Sam every once in awhile with something that looked like worry in his eyes, but remained silent, just as speechless.

Sam held the phone to his ear, waiting for the other line to pick up. When it did, he spoke, reading the fake Marshal I.D., "This is Detective Macready, I'm a Marshal for the state police, and I need information—" Sam paused as the operator asked for verification. He replied succinctly, "Macready. _Detective _Macready, badge number one-five-A, I've got a signal four-eighty in progress. I need it registered to the owner of a two-door sedan, Michigan license plate Mary Frank 6037… yeah _okay_, just hurry." He was put on hold, but he was clearly impatient and kept the Blackberry to his ear.

"Sammy, relax, it's just a nightmare," Dean assured.

Serena wondered if he was trying to reassure himself as much as Sam.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Sam muttered dryly.

"I mean it—just a normal, everyday, naked-in-class nightmare." He insisted, as casually as he could, "This license plate, it won't check out, you'll see."

"Well, that depends if Sam dreamt he was naked _while_ he watched the guy die in his sedan," Serena quipped, trying desperately to lighten the mood. She struggled to keep the tension she felt from reaching her voice. "In that case, no biggie… but I wouldn't call it normal."

Dean wasn't sure whether he wanted to grin or grimace, but he felt himself relax just a little. The joke was tasteless and completely uncalled for, and he only wished he'd thought of it.

Somehow, this seemed to calm Sam, too, but clearly not enough to convince him the nightmare was nothing less than a vivid omen. He blew out a sigh that wasn't quite relief, "It felt different. _Real_. Like when I saw our old house, and Jessica."

Serena's brows creased, suddenly puzzled. "Jessica?"

Sam stiffened in his seat, and it seemed that he'd unwittingly let his guard down, said too much.

Unbidden, the memory of what he'd said to her that evening struck her: _"You're right. This_ is_ personal."_

"Well, yeah, that makes sense," Dean spoke, pointedly ignoring the newfound tension. He'd be damned if things got awkward again, he decided he was sick of it. His brother was on edge, and it was his job to calm him down. "You dreamt about _our_ house, _your_ girlfriend. This guy, have you ever seen him before?"

Sam hesitated, but muttered, "No."

"No," Dean parroted, confident. "Exactly. Why would you have a premonition of some random guy in Michigan?"

"_I don't know_," Sam answered pointedly, looking at Dean with an almost helpless expression.

But almost as soon as he'd said it, the operator was back, and Sam was instantly alert, almost forgetting their conversation entirely, "Yes, I'll be there…" He listened intently. He and Dean shared a grim look. Sam jotted down the address on his moleskin notebook, and read it out loud, "Jim Miller. Sangamon, Michigan. Yeah. Street address?" As the operator spoke, he scribbled the street address over the page. "Got him, thanks." He turned off his phone and put it away.

Dean's brows were furrowed, his jaw set. He was unsettled. Serena didn't even think he was capable of looking so grave, but apparently she was wrong.

Sam let out a tense sigh, and the look on his face was even graver. "No truck stops." He ordered, and then looked at Dean, "How long?"

"Sangamon?" Dean said, deliberately impassive, "Couple of hours."

Sam stared at the dark road ahead of them, the rain pounding against the windshields. "Drive faster."

…

_What the hell did I just get myself into?_

Serena pondered this question in particular as she stood among the crowd of bystanders clustered together in the street right across a typical suburban house, watching the ambulance push a stretcher carrying the corpse, Jim Miller, which was tucked into a standard black body bag.

They'd asked a woman in the crowd what had happened. The woman had known Miller by association, saw him every Sunday at St. Augustine's Church and claimed he'd seemed like a normal well-adjusted guy. Police were calling it a suicide, but no one in the neighborhood had seen it coming. Jim Miller had locked himself in his car and left the engine running. He'd died of asphyxia, obviously. But Sam knew better.

Serena was beginning to believe him.

She saw a blonde woman she assumed was Miller's wife, weeping at the doorstep of their home as she watched her husband's body being carted off. She was being comforted by another man, maybe a relative, while a younger man stood beside them slouched over and expressionless. Serena's heart seemed to sink at the sight.

The rain had stopped hours ago, but somehow it was still dark, the night as black and bleak as the weight of death and loss that settled over the street. The smell of car exhaust still lingered in the air. The red and blue neon lights of the police cars flashed occasionally.

Serena felt like she was reliving the night her parents had died, the same cold night, the same neon lights flashing in her eyes, the same crowd buzzing with morbid curiosity, and the same ambulance vehicle hauling her parents' bodies in body bags. She'd been in the center of the chaos, her grief far beyond the point of tears, barely registering what the police officers were telling her…

"_Did you touch the bodies?" _

"_Where were you when the murders took place?"_

"_We're going to bring in a specialist, she's a psychologist, and she'd like to talk to you."_

"_Havenwyck Hospital will be a good place for you to recover, Ms. Campbell, you'll be taken care of there." _

"_How many times do I have to tell you, Serena? It was all in your head. Your parents weren't killed by monsters, just men, very bad men. Now, take your pills…"_

Michigan. Serena had honestly thought she'd have more time before she'd ever return to this state, but apparently The Fates didn't think so, those blind vindictive hags…

"Are you alright, dear?"

Serena almost jumped at the voice, not expecting anyone to even notice her. She turned, and saw that the woman Sam and Dean had been talking to was looking at her with a bit of concern.

Serena touched her bandaged neck, a little self-consciously. "Yeah… sure, I'm fine. It's not as bad as it looks."

"You must be freezing," The older woman said, eyeing Serena's clothes in distaste.

After that remark, it occurred to Serena that she was still in her skinny, skinny jeans and Sam's too-big shirt drooping around her shoulders. She probably looked ridiculous, dressed so thinly in spite of such a cold weather. Her hair was probably a mess, too, but she decided she didn't care.

"I'm alright, ma'am," Serena sighed, but even she wasn't certain if her statement was the truth, or a very good lie. She almost jumped when she felt something warm and big drape around her shoulders.

"Here," Dean muttered gruffly, pulling his denim jacket around her shoulders, "You're catching too much attention in those clothes." He smiled wryly, "In more ways than one."

Serena blinked, warmed by the gesture as much as the jacket, but said nothing.

Sam suddenly left the crowd and returned to the Impala, obviously upset, and Dean followed him.

Serena wanted to follow them, too, but the woman distracted her by asking, "Are you from around here? I'm not the most neighborly citizen here, but I'm sure I would've noticed—"

"No," Serena answered shortly, and left the woman in the crowd, going over to Sam and Dean almost like a child seeking out her parents for comfort and stability. Everything about this place brought back dark memories she'd thought she was done and over with. It unnerved her.

They were leaning against the side of the Impala not far from the crowd, overlooking the garage where the assumed suicide took place. Serena reached them in time to catch the middle of an uneasy conversation going on between the two brothers. They were speaking in hushed tones, their conversation clearly meant to be private.

Serena eavesdropped anyway.

Sam was shaking his head, as if he couldn't accept what had happened. "This doesn't make any sense, man. Why would I even _have_ these premonitions unless there was a chance I could stop them from happening?"

"I don't know," Dean answered, without even thinking about it. He was staring at the body bag being carted into the backdoors of the ambulance van.

Sam sighed, "So what do you think killed him?"

Dean just shrugged. "Maybe a guy just killed himself? Maybe there's nothing supernatural going on at all?"

Serena's brows furrowed. She felt the chill of the night air nip at the very pores of her skin, and without thinking, she drew her arms around herself, listening intently. The jacket was large and Dean's warmth lingered in the fabric, and her hair was thick and long, keeping her ears and shoulders quite warm, and she was grateful for that, at least.

"I'm telling you, I _watched _it happen. He was _murdered _by something, Dean. It trapped him in the garage." Sam insisted, almost desperately.

"What, a spirit? A poltergeist? What?"

"I don't know what it was! I don't know what it means—I don't know what the _hell _is happening, Dean."

_That makes two of us_, Serena thought. She wished she knew at least _half _of what was going on, at the very least.

Dean said nothing, but he was staring at Sam with an odd expression of incredulity.

Sam furrowed his brows at the look. "What?"

"Nothing, man, I'm just—I'm worried about you."

"Well, don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything," Dean claimed, but the incredulous look remained on his face. "Though I gotta say, you look like crap."

"Nice," Sam commended sarcastically, to which Dean just shrugged.

"We'll check the house, talk to the family," Dean said, suddenly getting down to business. He went to the trunk of the Impala and pulled it open, already looking like he wanted to get it over with, as if the whole thing was a chore.

His visible indifference at the fact that a man had just _died_ annoyed her, but she smothered the feeling. Jim Miller's tragic death was more than just a suicide, whether Dean was willing to admit it or not. Perhaps these bizarre turn of events were affecting all of them on some personal level, and they all had their own way of coping with it.

"They're not gonna want to talk to you," Serena said, speaking up for the first time.

Both men's eyes whipped up at her almost simultaneously as soon as she'd spoken. They had such identical looks of surprise on their faces that it was impossible to look at them and _not_ assume they were indeed brothers.

"How much did you hear?" Dean demanded sharply.

Serena shrugged. "Enough to know that you're going to hunt whatever killed that poor man."

"_Allegedly_," Dean reminded, pointlessly.

Sam's brows rose, a little surprised by her confession. Did this mean Serena believed him? It was reassuring, and in spite of himself he was grateful to her for it.

"She's right," Sam said. "I mean, have you _seen_ them, Dean? They're devastated."

Serena placed her hands on her hips. "And they're certainly not going to talk to Sam, with his nose busted up the way it is. It'd just make them uncomfortable—again, sorry about that, Sam."

Sam gingerly touched his nose, a little self-consciously, frowning. But it was a reasonable speculation, and probably true. Why would a grieving widow want to talk to a guy who looked like he'd just got out of a bar fight?

Dean frowned, glancing at the family again. It was the same scene, Miller's wife pouring her eyes out while some balding guy let her cry in his arms. And then there was the younger guy nearby, a kid really, and he was just standing there like a zombie—probably in shock. Dean looked away, but at that moment he saw it, the bell tower of St. Augustine's Church towering over the rest of the community, and he was suddenly struck with an epiphany. Kind of.

"But I know who they _will _talk to," Dean said, a roguish grin already threatening to split his face.

Serena looked skeptical, "Who?"

Dean just smirked, and, at the same time, Sam and Serena seemed to feel a vague sense of trepidation settle over them both.

…

Sam sighed grimly, "This has got to be a new low for us."

The Impala was parked a few blocks in front of St. Augustine's Church, overlooking the towering white structure, but remaining far enough that they appeared completely inconspicuous. It was still too early in the morning for the sun to be out, but dawn was steadily approaching, and they all knew it.

"I can not _believe_ you're going to do this." Serena told Dean, leaning in between the front seats from her place in the backseat of the Impala.

"It's an easy gig," Dean reassured, "I'll be in and out before you know it."

"Oh, I don't doubt _that_, you definitely look like the type to be good at this sort of thing, but—a church? You're seriously going to break in and _steal _from a church?" Serena flustered. "I mean, don't they have any decent costume shops in this town?"

Dean wrinkled his nose. "What do you mean I _look _like the type?"

"Like a criminal, dummy."

"Sweetheart, I _sincerely_ doubt you've met a convicted felon as good-looking as me," Dean retaliated, smirking insolently.

Serena huffed, "Just make sure not to drop the soap in prison, _pretty boy_—"

"Guys, focus," Sam pointedly interrupted them, before their bickering got out of hand. "And Serena, calm down, it's not a big deal. Think of it as a sacrifice made for the greater good… technically."

"But… it's a _church_." Serena protested weakly, but it was apparent she was already yielding.

"We'll give it back, I promise," Sam assured her, offering a faint encouraging smile. Serena tried to smile back, but the effort was halfhearted and cynical.

Dean scoffed.

Serena looked at him, her eyes narrowed scathingly. "What?"

Dean tried and failed to look innocent. "_What_?"

"What's with the scoff?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all. It's just, you know, this is all starting to make sense. You're a _bible-thumper_. It's no wonder why you're so uptight and self-righteous. You probably don't even know _how_ to pick a lock."

Serena set her jaw, shooting him a truly withering look. "You know what? _Fine._ I'm coming with you."

"What?" Sam gaped.

"No." Dean retorted almost immediately, "_Hell _no."

"Why not? You said so yourself, it's an easy gig. We go in, grab the robes, and then we leave." Serena countered, pointedly. "You guys seemed to have this bizarre talent for underestimating me, and forgetting _I am a hunter, too_. So, give me one good reason why I can't come."

Dean grumbled, "Bobby will kick our asses if he found out we let you near anywhere _remotely _dangerous."

"Too late for _that_, don't you think?" Serena rolled her eyes. "Look, _something_ killed that man and devastated his whole family. I'm not just gonna stand by like some hapless bystander while Dean here tries to pass off as a _priest_—because I think everyone in this car knows he won't fool anyone with_ his_ attitude."

Sam frowned. "Serena, I understand how you feel, really, but I don't think that you're healthy enough to—"

"I've been through worse scrapes than this. I'm a hunter, I've done this a million times before, and I _don't _need your permission." Suddenly, she opened the door on her side of the backseat and walked out before they could even think to protest, heading straight for the church.

"Son of a—! Hey, get back here!" Dean sputtered, scrambling out of the driver's seat.

"This car doesn't have child-safety locks?" Sam exclaimed incredulously, getting out of the front passenger's seat and running after Serena, who had somehow already made it halfway to St. Augustine's in such a short time.

When Dean fell in step with Sam, he huffed irritably, "Hey, it was built in the sixties, be grateful it even has seatbelts!"

…

They had booked the last available room at a local motel in town called Escanaba Motel. The room was relatively big, which was quite a step up from the roach motel they'd shacked up in somewhere outside of Black Hills, but it was gaudy and had this truly bizarre wilderness theme going on with the furnishings—there was a plastic head of a boar mounted against one wall, like a trophy, as well as a plaque of a salmon. The color scheme was earthy, and the furniture was made to look like actual trees and branches.

Why anyone would want to feel like they were sleeping outdoors when they were clearly _indoors_ was anybody's guess. It was a genuine oxymoron. But the mattresses were comfier, at least, and they could actually afford a room with more than two beds.

"I can't believe you agreed to go along with this." Sam grated, sitting on the edge of one of the beds, wringing his hands.

Dean's back was turned to his brother. He stood in front of a vanity mirror dressed in a sleek priest suit, courtesy of St. Augustine's Church. He was having trouble with the white necktie around his collar. Dean grumbled, "What's so hard to believe? It was _my _idea, and it's a good one."

"You know I'm not talking about that," Sam stated pointedly. "Why did you agree to let Serena come with you to that house?"

"Hey, don't use that tone with me. I _tried_ to talk her out of it, but she's scary when she wants something." Dean grimaced. "I think it's obvious she's not going to back off, Sam."

"She could get hurt!" Sam protested.

"She was hurt when we found her, and she _still _managed to kick your ass—_and_ nearly shoot us." Dean smiled wryly, "You wanna know what _I _think? We should listen to her advice for once and stop forgetting she's a hunter, just like us, which means she can handle a little _supernatural pest control_ just like us. Besides, it's probably nothing. We still don't have any solid proof the guy didn't just off himself."

"You still want to believe there's nothing supernatural going on?" Sam furrowed his brows, his expression vaguely annoyed. "I saw it happen, Dean. I _know _it wasn't a suicide, and I'm not going to believe otherwise until we get some solid proof that it wasn't."

"That's why we're _doing _all this." Dean turned around to face Sam, his collar forgotten. "Sam, I'm not saying I don't believe you. But it's hard to treat this like one of our usual jobs. I mean, for some reason it has something to do with you, and whatever bothers you, bothers _me_. And you know the worst part? We don't know _what _these people have to do with it. It doesn't make sense. So _excuse me_ for being a little wary about all this."

Sam looked mildly stunned by the small outburst. He frowned, a little sheepish. "I… Dean, I'm sorry, I'm just—"

"Don't worry about it." Dean interrupted curtly, "And notanother word out of you. That is as close to a chick flick moment as I will _ever _get, and if you start getting all sentimental on me, I just _know_ you're going to make this emasculating."

"It's pretty emasculating already," Serena commented, leaning against the open doorway to the bathroom, which she'd previously been occupying to change into her costume.

Sam and Dean just stared, barely even registering what Serena just said. They were more interested in the outfit she wore. She was dressed as a nun; the modest black gown was long-sleeved and slimming. Everything but her hands and head were covered. The habit was tucked snugly over her head, her hair gathered inside it, but a few stray curls fell around her face, and her bangs stubbornly poked out from underneath the habit, brushing against her forehead.

"What?" Serena huffed, folding her arms across her chest. A faint tinge of red colored her cheeks.

The nun's dressing gown didn't do much to accentuate her figure, which was the whole point. Nuns weren't exactly supposed to dress to encourage temptation, their attire was _meant _to be unflattering. But Serena could wear a burlap sack and still look good. After all, the nun costume couldn't hide her face.

Sam's eyebrows were raised, wide-eyed. "Uh…"

"Cute hat," Dean smirked patronizingly, but to his credit he didn't snicker. "But I miss the jeans."

"It's called a _habit_," Serena corrected him, irritably. "And _you're_ the one who insisted I wear this."

Dean grinned. "I just wanted to see if you'd actually do it. Besides, it hides the bandages."

"They're not going to buy it," Serena huffed, tugging at the long black skirt swaddled around her legs. "They're going to take one look at us and know we're frauds. I mean, men and women of the cloth don't usually visit memorial services for _suicides_."

"Sweetheart, I doubt _anyone _would look at you and think you're a fraud in that getup. The worst thing that could happen is that you'd make a few God-fearing men think some very improper thoughts about what's underneath that nun outfit of yours." Dean reassured, only half-serious.

"Real encouraging, Dean," Sam dryly remarked.

"That's _Father Simmons _to you, young man," Dean rumbled in mock authority, and then gestured his hand toward Serena, "And _this _lovely young tease is Sister Freely."

"You make the worst priest _ever_," Serena grumbled witheringly. "And who says you make up the names? I am _not _going to be named after some heavy metal has-been."

"Maybe I should go instead?" Sam offered. "I mean, if you really don't have much confidence in this plan, you shouldn't have to do this, Serena."

"I know what you're trying to do, Sam, and I appreciate your concern, but I'm also starting to resent it." Serena admitted, smiling a little wryly. "I can take care of myself. I _want_ to do this. I want to help."

"You heard Mother Teresa," Dean quipped, clapping his hands together as if to signify the end of their conversation. "Now let's go pay our respects to the Millers."

…

Dean stood outside the door of the Millers' residence, Serena by his side and looking a little anxious as she pressed the tip of her forefinger against the doorbell. The doorbell chimed once, and they weren't surprised when the door wasn't answered immediately.

Dean fiddled with his collar, trying to loosen it. How priests could stand such stifling suits confounded him. He noticed her uneasiness and tossed Serena a lopsided smile. His confidence was almost reassuring, but Serena just raised her eyebrow at him. He shouldn't act so proud of this harebrained scheme of his, in her opinion.

The door opened, revealing the same balding man from that night, the one who'd been comforting Miller's wife. He wore a plaid lumberjack shirt over a gray undershirt and jeans, and he stared at them both, his expression rather apathetic. Serena found this pretty odd, all things considered.

Dean smiled, insincere but surprisingly convincing. "Good afternoon. I'm Father Simmons," He said, quite dramatically. He gestured briefly to Serena, "This is Sister June. I'm a new junior priest at St. Augustine's. Sister June here is also new. May we come in?"

Serena smiled halfheartedly, bringing up her hand to wave meekly at the older man.

The man pursed his lip into a thin smile and nodded, opening the door wider to let them in.

Dean nodded and went through, but not before shooting Serena a triumphant look. She smothered the urge to roll her eyes at him, and followed him inside.

"We're very sorry for your loss," Serena murmured politely, as she entered the relatively large foyer. From where they stood, they could see at the end of the hall where the refreshments were kept in what seemed to be a dining room. There were several thresholds which led to multiple rooms, all seemed to be adjoined, and the house itself looked quaint and ordinary.

"It's difficult times like these when the Lord's guidance is most needed—" Dean started, and seemed to be on a roll, too, but the man cut him off.

"Look, you wanna pitch your whole _the Lord has a plan_ thing, fine, but don't pitch it to me," He stated offhandedly, and a little irritably, "My brother's dead."

Serena frowned, taken aback by the man's disrespect, but reminded herself that this was a grieving brother; he obviously wasn't in the mood to have other people's beliefs shoved down his throat, especially when that particular belief _didn't _believe in salvation for suicide victims.

"Roger, please!" A woman spoke up behind them, reproachfully.

Serena glanced behind her, and recognized the blonde woman holding a tray of food as Jim Miller's widow, the same one who had been crying the night of his death. She wore a modest baby blue cardigan over a white blouse and a black skirt that fell just above her knees. She looked like she could barely hold herself together, and for that Serena felt sorry for her. The woman probably hadn't gotten much sleep since her husband's death. Serena knew what that was like, at least.

The man, Roger, just rolled his eyes and muttered wryly, "Excuse me." He left the foyer, entering another room occupied by a handful of people, probably neighbors and relatives coming to offer their condolences.

The woman approached them, and sighed, "I'm sorry about my brother-in-law. It's just—he's been so upset about Jim's death." She adjusted the tray in her hands, and Dean eyed it as if he was suddenly hungry. "Would you like some coffee?"

"That'd be great," Dean accepted.

Serena nodded and smiled politely, her face starting to hurt from the mechanical stretch of her lips. So far she'd been silent, partly because she was still uncomfortable impersonating a nun, and partly because funerals just made her uneasy. She couldn't trust her own voice.

Mrs. Miller led them into the living room, offering them to sit down. Dean took a seat on the sofa, and Serena chose to sit across from him in an armchair. There was a coffee table between them, and on top of it was a plate of bite-sized roasted wieners skewered in toothpicks.

Mrs. Miller excused herself and left the room to prepare the coffee.

As soon as she was gone, Dean leaned over and grabbed one of the skewered mini-hotdogs, popping it into his mouth. "These are awesome," He gushed, grabbing another one and offering it to her. "Want some?"

Serena grimaced and shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. She couldn't bring herself to take it, no matter how good the food looked. It was bad enough they were impersonating a priest and a nun—but crashing a memorial gathering, uninvited, and eating their food? The guilt alone made her lose all her appetite.

Dean just shrugged, oblivious to her discomfort, and helped himself to another mini-hotdog.

Mrs. Miller returned with a tray in her hands which carried two faux-porcelain mugs and a coffee pot. She poured a cup for Dean first. He took it with a quick polite smile, and gingerly cradled the steaming mug in his hands.

Mrs. Miller poured a cup of coffee for Serena and offered it to her, "It was wonderful of you to stop by. The support of the church means so much right now."

Serena took it politely, giving Mrs. Miller a gracious smile. She didn't like coffee. She usually had to add a lot of cream and sugar before she could even tolerate the _smell_ of coffee, let alone the taste, but she didn't want to reject Mrs. Miller's kind gesture. Serena placed the steaming mug on the table, with no intention of touching it again.

"Of course," Dean said, cheerfully. "After all, we are all God's children."

Serena stared at him, slightly annoyed. Dean was enjoying this way too much.

Mrs. Miller smiled, and left to put away the tray and the coffee pot. Dean popped another mini-hotdog into his mouth. He felt Serena staring at him and looked up in time to see her shaking her head at him, a reproving expression on her face. "What?"

"Just tone it down, _Father_." Serena recommend, matter-of-factly.

There was a brief moment where Dean almost looked sheepish, but as Mrs. Miller returned to sit on the sofa with him, Dean straightened and put away the toothpick. In spite of the fact that he had yet to swallow his food, he went ahead and asked, "Mrs. Miller, did your husband have a _history_ of depression?"

Serena wanted to run her palm over her face in exasperation. Dean was so tactless. But she remained silent, knowing that if she opened her mouth now, she'd just end up telling him off, and that was not a very _nun_ thing to do, as far as she knew.

"Nothing like that," Mrs. Miller confessed, quietly, her brows creasing. "We… had our ups and downs, like everyone, but…we were happy." At this point, it was clear she was struggling to keep her composure, her tired eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I just don't understand how Jim could do something like that—" The tears fell, finally, and Ms. Miller choked back a sob as she brought her hand up to wipe her tearful eyes.

Serena frowned, her brows creasing. She almost couldn't bear seeing the woman like this, lost in her own grief and loss over her late husband. "I'm so sorry you had to find him like that," Serena said, and she meant it.

Mrs. Miller sniffled and composed herself, slightly comforted by Serena's overt sincerity. "Actually—our son, Max, he was the one who found him." Without looking, she gestured her arm towards a familiar young man sitting alone in a corner of the dining room, with curly orange-blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and paler skin. He was wearing a bottle-green suit and clashing navy blue tie, with black slacks. He just sat there, expressionless, quietly observing the guests milling around the room.

Serena looked at Dean, and they exchanged brief knowing looks. Dean nodded imperceptibly, which gave Serena the indication to ask, "Do you mind if maybe we—I mean, _I _go talk to him?"

Mrs. Miller sighed, as if in relief. "Oh, thank you, Sister."

Serena smiled kindly, even though she wanted to grimace at the 'Sister' title. She stood up and nodded to Dean, before leaving the living room through a threshold which led into the dining hall, wherein Max Miller wallowed in a corner.

She walked up to him tentatively, and when she was near enough that he couldn't ignore her like he seemed to do with everyone else, she smiled down at Max as he looked up to regard her. He looked introverted and listless, but he seemed to straighten in his seat as he saw her.

"Hello." Serena greeted, offering a small friendly smile, "My name's Serena." For some reason, she didn't want to use a fake name. In her experience, being on a first-name basis with a witness usually created a sense of trust and friendship, which made it less likely for them to brush her off and refuse to answer her questions. Serena always felt more comfortable being as honest as the situation allowed.

There was hesitation, before he replied simply, "Max."

"I know. I was just speaking with your mother, I'm very sorry for your loss… um, do you mind if I sit with you for a bit?" Serena smiled hopefully.

Max shrugged, clearly uncomfortable, but it seemed his own manners wouldn't let him say no to a nun, particularly one as disarming as Serena.

Serena took a spare chair and set it adjacent to him before sitting on it, her hands folded daintily over her lap. "Your mother told me how you were the one who found your father after he… after it happened. I'm sorry you had to be the one to find him like that."

"Yeah. Thanks." Max muttered, looking away.

Serena blinked, mildly surprised by his indifference. And then she smiled, ruefully. "How are you holding up?"

Max just shrugged, his eyes staring hard at his shoes. He didn't seem like much of a talker.

"You live with your parents here, Max?" She didn't mean anything by it, she was just curious, hoping to get him to open up.

"I'm trying to save up for school, that's all." Max answered haltingly. And then, he asked, "What about you?"

"Huh?" Serena sputtered, not expecting the question.

"You look young…younger than me, Sister."

"Oh. That." Serena flustered, the apples of her cheeks pinking, "I get that all the time, people are always telling me how young I look. I'm actually twenty-five. It's just good genes, I guess. You might even say I'm _blessed_. Ha!" She wanted to kick herself after she finished that sentence. She almost sounded like Dean.

Max nodded, believing her, to which Serena visibly relaxed. "You always wanted to be a Sister, Serena?"

"Well, I…" Serena hesitated, and then said earnestly, "Actually, my mother was very religious. She would've become a nun, herself, but she had me, so I guess that complicated things. But that didn't discourage me from wanting to do my part in saving people." She surprised herself by how much of the truth there was in that lie.

"Oh…" Max had the decency to look a little ashamed. "Sorry. I didn't know…"

"It's alright," Serena smiled graciously. She wasn't going to make this about herself. "So what was your dad like?"

Max shrugged almost imperceptibly, "Normal dad."

Serena could tell just by looking at him, Max seemed tense talking about his late father. "So when you found your dad…?"

"I woke up. I heard the engine running… I don't know why he did it." It was simple and concise, almost rehearsed. Max couldn't seem to look her in the eyes when he'd said it. Serena wondered if it was because he was lying, or remembering the night Jim Miller died just upset him.

Serena found herself bringing her hand up to touch his arm, a comforting gesture, and to her surprise he didn't flinch. "It's rough, loosing a parent… especially when you don't have hall the answers." Serena didn't have to imagine what that must have been like. She knew from experience. The whole situation felt morbidly ironic. The Fates sure had one dry sense of humor…

Max stared, expressionless. He looked away, and didn't say another word. It was obvious he didn't want to talk anymore.

Serena felt her smile, and her hand, fall away. She quietly got to her feet, but before she left, she told him, "Take care of yourself, Max."

When she left the dining room, Serena realized her hands were shaking, almost imperceptibly. It was unsettling. She rubbed her hands together, trying to regain her composure. Something about Max unnerved her, but she told herself she was just overreacting. He was sketchy and withdrawn, but that didn't make him dangerous. If anything, he was probably just depressed. She could relate to that, at least.

Maybe what really bothered her was how much this place, this whole situation, seemed achingly familiar? This was too close to home, both figuratively _and _literally.

Serena shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. She was too stubborn to let herself wallow in her own losses. If she'd grown up at all, she knew she couldn't let her feelings get in the way, not now, and certainly not at a time like this.

"Sister?"

Serena turned to see Mrs. Miller walking up to her, a question in her eyes. She faked a smile, "Mrs. Miller, I was just looking for you."

"Oh," Mrs. Miller said. She looked better now, having dried her tears and regained her composure. "I was looking for you, too. How's Max?"

"You tell me," Serena admitted, shrugging. "Has he always been so… um, _shy_?"

Mrs. Miller sighed, "It's alright, Sister. I know Max can be a little… reclusive. He's never been a very social boy, and he seemed to have gotten worse since… since_ it_ happened. I was actually hoping you'd get through to him."

"He's taking it pretty hard, huh?" Serena asked, sympathetic.

Mrs. Miller nodded, frowning ruefully.

Unable to help herself, Serena laid her hand over Ms. Miller's shoulder compassionately, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Serena saw Dean coming down from the staircase. "Sister June," He called, offering Mrs. Miller an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid we're needed at the church. I'm sorry we couldn't stay long, Mrs. Miller."

"Oh, no, that's alright. I'm grateful you showed at all—thank you so much for coming." Mrs. Miller smiled halfheartedly, "I'll see you two to the door, Father."

Mrs. Miller followed them to the door and they said their goodbyes before Mrs. Miller closed the door.

"Thank God that's over." Dean tugged at his collar and loosened it as they walked away from the house, heading towards the Impala, which was parked across the street. "Get anything from that Max kid?"

"Other than _the creeps_? No. He wasn't much of a talker." Serena sighed, peeling off the habit and shaking her hair loose. It fell around her in long, wavy golden tendrils, and she ran her fingers through her the tangles to undo them. Serena glanced up at him and caught him staring. She raised an eyebrow, "How about you? What were you doing upstairs?"

Dean reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and pulled out a complicated handheld device that looked like it came straight out of a_ James Bond_ movie, all wires and computer chips and a digital camera panel. "I checked the house for any evidence of ghosts. Infrared, cold spots, ectoplasm—stuff like that. There was nothing."

"And your fancy toy told you all that?" Serena asked, dubiously. She felt a faint sense of nostalgia, somewhat reminded of Amy Anderson, an ingenious young paranormal engineer and one of her earliest friends when she'd first started out as a hunter. But Amy's EMF technology had much sleeker designs, and conveniently smaller, too. She wondered what Amy would think about Dean's crude homemade EMF-reader.

"It's not a _toy_." Dean grimaced, huffily pocketing the device. "It checks out. Ms. Miller said there wasn't anything weird about the house, either. No electrical shortages, no weird noises in the walls. I repeat: _nothing_."

"Let's just get back to the motel and let Sam know about what we found," Serena said flippantly, ducking into the front passenger's seat of the Impala. She let out a short huff, "Or more like what we _didn't_ find."

Dean got in the driver's seat and closed the door with a resounding thud. He pushed the key into the ignition and started it up. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you sounded disappointed."

"Something doesn't feel right…" Serena said, folding her arms across her chest. "I feel like I'm in the dark here."

"I'm surprised you aren't asking a million questions a minute by now," Dean admitted, putting the car on drive and merging into the road. "You know, about Sam and…all this psychic stuff."

Serena snorted. "Are you kidding me? I'm not touching that with a ten-foot pole. Whatever's going on with you two, it's personal, and I'm probably better off not knowing anyway. If it's really that important, then I'd know about it eventually."

Dean blinked, raising an eyebrow at her. "You're taking this pretty well."

Serena's mouth twisted into a faint grimace. "I don't have much choice. A man died, possibly murdered by something supernatural—I'm a hunter, my instincts take over. The whole psychic thing is just a minor detail right now."

She knew not to ask personal questions and mind her own business at a time like this. She was _considerate_. A man died and, first and foremost, it was their job to find out if anything supernatural was behind it. Dealing with personal issues was the last thing that should be on their mind, and Serena had her own personal demons to deal with, so she wasn't about to go looking into others'.

In spite of himself, Dean was relieved, and even grateful. It made him feel just a smidgen of guilt, too, because he hadn't been considerate at all when they'd fist met, in fact he'd been downright intrusive.

But Dean wouldn't apologize; he was too stubborn for that. Instead, he muttered, "You up for pizza? I'm buying."

Serena blinked, but suddenly realized she was hungry. "Sure."

Dean grinned. "It's a date."

Serena actually laughed, "_Something_ tells me you've never been on an actual date in your life."

"What are you talking about? I've been on _tons_ of dates."

Serena rolled her eyes, "You mean to tell me you've actually dressed up, taken a girl to a decent restaurant and actually bothered to remember her name?"

"Well, when you put it that way…" Dean smirked, "Care to be my first?"

Serena leaned back on her seat. In spite of herself, she was smiling, even as she shook her head. "Save it for the half-drunk _bimbos_ you pick up in bars, Dean-O."

…

Needless to say, Serena had turned him down. It wasn't even a serious question in the first place, they both knew it, and she wasn't about to humor him. But when they returned to the Escanaba Motel early in the evening, Sam had ordered a sausage and mushroom pizza, and two boxes of spicy chicken wings. He knew they'd be hungry, and he had already helped himself to a box of chicken wings, as well.

While they were away visiting the Miller's residence, Sam had taken the liberty of doing some extensive research on the Miller's home, and any history of supernatural activity around Sangamon, Michigan for as far back as ten years. He'd littered the walls with his research, pinning up maps and newspaper clippings and articles that seemed even remotely relevant to their hunt. And he was just getting started.

After changing into normal clothes, they told Sam what they'd learned from the Miller's: nothing. But that didn't discourage Sam from digging deeper, becoming even more determined to find something—_anything_ that could explain why he'd had that psychic vision.

In the meantime, Dean had taken out all the guns out of the Impala and laid each weapon neatly over his bed, taking them apart and cleaning them, one by one. Serena had initially tried to help Sam in his research, but ended up getting bored. She clearly wasn't very good at investigative research and paperwork. So she decided to leave Sam to what he did best, and help Dean clean the guns out of the Impala's trunk instead.

By the time they were done taking apart and cleaning every single firearm Dean owned, it was already dark outside, and Sam still was nowhere near a breakthrough in their investigation.

Serena was cleaning out the barrel of a shotgun when she heard Dean ask, "What do you have?" Curious, she glanced up to look at Sam, to whom the question was directed at.

"A lot of nothing," Sam sighed, his jaw set as he pinned another reference sheet on the wall. The motel room's walls were littered with notes and theories. "Nothing bad has happened to the Miller house since it was built."

"How about the land?" Serena offered helpfully. She grabbed the handle piece of the shotgun, which had been detached from the barrel, and blew away imaginary dust before wiping over it with a rag. She was more comfortable holding a blade than a firearm, but in spite of that, she rather liked cleaning guns. It was almost therapeutic, and kept her mind on the objective at hand. She had a feeling Dean felt the same way, or he wouldn't have brought them out to clean at all.

Sam just shook his head and walked over to them, "No graveyards, battlefields, tribal lands or _any_ other kind of atrocity on or near the property."

Dean was cleaning his Colt 1991 revolver, but he paused and said, "Hey man, I told you, we searched that house up and down. No cold spots, no sulfur scent—_nada_."

Sam took a seat on the bed before them and brought his hand up to massage his forehead. "And the family said everything was normal?" He asked, turning around to look at them.

"Uh-huh. If it were a demon or a poltergeist, don't you think someone would've noticed something?" Dean said. "I used the infrared thermal scanner, man. There was nothing."

Serena reattached the sawed-off shotgun and placed it alongside the other cleaned firearms. She glanced up at Sam, briefly, but quickly looked up to stare at him again, thoroughly this time. She noticed the film of sweat gleaming against his forehead and neck. It struck her as unusual, seeing as the weather was so cold. "Are you alright?"

"Huh? Yeah, yeah…" Sam dismissed, not wanting to change the subject for anything. "So, what, you think Jim Miller killed himself? And this…dream… was just some freakish coincidence?"

"I dunno," Dean shrugged, occupying himself with cleaning yet another gun, a pistol. He added flippantly, "But you can be sure that there's nothing supernatural about that house."

Sam brought his hand up to press his fingers against his forehead, again. "You know, maybe, uh—" He mumbled, struggling to concentrate against the migraine pulsing between his brows. "Maybe it has nothing to do with the house…" Sam winced, "Maybe it's just, ugh… gosh… maybe it's connected to Jim, in some way?"

"Sam?" Serena got up, certain there was something wrong now. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Dean set the pistol down on the bed, also sensing something wrong. He furrowed his brows, "What's wrong with you?"

Sam suddenly fell to his knees, clutching his head in pain, "Ugh, my—my head!"

Serena wasted no time, quickly crawling over the bed to reach him. She dropped to her knees in front of him and took hold of him, her fingers closing around his broad shoulders, "Sam? Sam, listen to me, it's alright—just don't fight it."

"What the hell's happening to him?" Dean said, standing behind her, his face twisted in an amalgam of shock, fear and confusion

Serena wasn't paying attention to Dean, she couldn't. Sam's fingers were digging painfully into her upper arms, as though he thought he would fall apart if he just loosened his grip. His forehead was hot and pressed against the crook of her shoulder, and he was breathing hard, clearly in pain.

"It's okay, Sam," Serena murmured soothingly, pressing her cheek against the top of Sam's head the way she use to do with Darien, "What do you see? Just look and tell me what you see…"

Dean didn't know what was going on, and it would've driven him crazy, being so lost and unable to do anything to help his younger brother. But Serena's warm voice seemed to be working. Sam relaxed only slightly, pulling away to look at her, but not really seeing her. His expression was contorted, pained, and his eyes were glazed over.

Sam saw Roger Miller, Jim's older brother, coming home to his apartment late in the evening with a brown paper bag of groceries. And then he saw a shadow, hiding in the room with him, unbeknownst to Roger. And finally—Roger was decapitated by a window, of all things, some invisible force crushing the casement shut just as Roger stuck his head out the window. The window struck like a guillotine. There was blood everywhere.

And then he was back in the motel room, staring into Dean and Serena's ashen faces. Sam was trembling, and when he realized his hands were holding Serena, he consciously loosened his grip. It didn't really matter anymore; Serena knew there would be hand-shaped bruises there in the morning.

"It's happening again," Sam breathed, eyes wide and dilated with alarm. "Something's going to kill Roger Miller."

…

* * *

**Acknowledgements: **

You know, I'm actually almost kind of proud of this chapter almost. XD And it didn't really take over a month to finish, either. My internet was down for awhile, so all I did was write-write-write, and read a lot of epic _Hellboy_ comics, those were inspiring and awesome. All those wonderful reviews kept me motivated, too, so I have to thank the eight who reviewed the last chapter: **Moon Mage Goddess**, **Princesakarlita411**, **Lucienne**, **SilverMidnightKitten**, **Ally0212**, **Too lazy to sign in**, **Failisse**, and **Shy28**!

Well, I hope you guys liked this chapter. Muahahaha—_cough_.

**Trivia:** This chapter is set during the episode "Nightmare" of Supernatural, season 1. "Sister June" is a reference to June Carter, Johnny Cash's mistress and, later, wife. And I'm pretty sure "Father Simmons" was a reference to Gene Simmons, from the heavy metal band KISS. In the anime, Darien/Mamoru had psychic visions from the past as well as the future, and in the manga he was also able to commune with the dead.


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